


Second Chances

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Imagine your OTP, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 28,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6325981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The non-supernatural AU that I dreamed  (yes I am just that sad, for this show anyway) and a few folk asked for.</p><p>Set in Small Town USA. Expect drama, feels, comedy, smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Dear God. I hope this isn't too awful and that you all enjoy it. I'm just vomiting my feelings at this point.
> 
> THANK YOU everyone who has read my work, left kudos and comments. This is for you all.
> 
> This is US set, but I'm writing it from the UK, so apologies for any errors; they're my own.

At this moment in time, the contents of two suitcases and a house he'd never set eyes on were all he had to his name. Professor Ichabod Crane, newly arrived from Oxford, stood in his poky new office at the college in the small town of Witness, Georgia.

He’d come through the door to the cheerful face of the Dean, one Frank Irving, and well-meaning enquiries about whether he’d found lodgings easily, where they were, how his journey had been. Now he looked around him at the three shelves on the wall, bare except for a few old Revolutionary War textbooks.

The scarred desk had seen better days. The feel of the pitted wood was strangely familiar under his fingertips. Perhaps because he had seen better days, too.

Anxious to get on with this new page of his life, Ichabod cracked open the old sash window and decisively opened the thick curtains. The fresh air from outside slid into the room. Spring had sprung, and through the glass of the window, the college gardens were alive with flowers of every colour.

He opened one of his two suitcases and started to transfer his books from the case to the shelves. The methodical movements were soothing, even in strange surroundings.

His office door was open, and people occasionally moved back and forth. Frank had instructed the staff to leave Ichabod be until the welcome buffet tonight. At the thought of it, he closed his eyes briefly before resuming his task. The last thing he felt like after his long journey was a party.

When all the books were arranged to his satisfaction, he took some time to flick through the documents Frank had provided. Staff Handbook. Fire procedure. Annual Leave entitlement. It was drier than some of the classics he’d read at University.

“We’ve never had an Oxford Graduate here before,” Frank had said proudly. Ichabod had swallowed back his reservations at taking a position in this small town. Small was what he needed after the events in Oxford. He’d needed somewhere quiet to lick his wounds, and the position of History Lecturer at this small college had looked perfect. Just the place to disappear.

The clock on the wall showed that he had enough time to make some headway into settling into his new home before he came back here for the welcoming committee. As he stood and tucked the chair under the desk, the poster under the clock caught his eye. It had been popular perhaps ten years ago. The edges were frayed, and it showed a black cat gripping a tree branch, its eyes wide, fur on end. The text read: _Hang In There, Baby!_

Taking it down would be his first act in the post of this job.

For now, he picked up his unpacked suitcase and locked the door with the key Frank had given him on the way in. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he made his way down the elegant scrolled staircase. The offices of the college were housed in an old Colonial-era townhouse - apt considering the subject he’d be teaching.

He drove to his new street. Walked through his new gate, on to his new porch, opened his new door for the first time. His new plants flanked the door, looking a bit worse for wear. They needed a bit of tending. He knew how they felt.

The paintwork on the little house’s exterior needed attention, too. Here and there it peeled with age, as did the paint on the old sash window. A tiled hallway greeted him. Rusted metal hooks jutted from the wall, painted a tired magnolia. The stairs marched up straight ahead, wooden, the bannister also in need of a new paintjob.

He had taken a chance, buying a house of which he’d only seen photos. The realtor in the next town had a lot of questions about why he’d wanted to buy in Witness. Why not a more happening town? The agent couldn’t promise that the house would increase hugely in value, even if totally renovated. It needed a facelift, he’d stressed. The whole house looked a little like it should be thrown on the scrapheap.

Ichabod's mouth lifted in a wry smile. In a way, it was completely perfect.

Without taking off his coat, he set his suitcase down and walked through the house. Two rooms sat on the left; a sitting area and a separate dining room. Both rooms’ floors would need sanding at the very least; replacing probably. The sitting room was bare save a battered Chesterfield sofa in stormy sky grey, so it seemed as if the furniture delivery he’d arranged through the realtor had arrived. The small dining table he had ordered, along with four chairs, had arrived, too. It was old, but charmingly so, and would certainly do for some time. The kitchen stood at the end of the house, on the small side, but perfectly serviceable. The cupboard doors were old but clean.

He opened one at random and found a box of cereal, unopened, with a best before date of three years past.He put it back and closed the door. The oven, too had seen better days, but it lit up gamely when he turned the temperature dial on. The fridge hummed - the electricity had been turned on, as he’d requested. Ichabod opened it cautiously.

A bottle of white wine filled one corner of the fridge door, with a note tied to it bearing the realtor's logo. He left the wine in the fridge and climbed the stairs.

Bathroom right at the top - aged but clean. Then two bedrooms, the master with a bed inside, the mattress still enveloped with plastic shrink wrap. A box on top, decorated with the logo from a bedding company, was filled with sheets, a duvet and pillows. The house was very quiet around him as he descended the stairs. In the hallway again, he hung his dark grey jacket on one of the coat pegs in the wall. Both peg and coat fell to the floor, leaving a hole in the faded magnolia paint.

The wall showed clean, bright white underneath the layers of yellow.


	2. Nothing Bundt Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the bewitching Sisters Mills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've stuck with it this far, I'm very grateful!

“I don’t remember tears being in the brownie recipe.”

Grace Abigail Mills - Abbie to her friends - looked up at the gentle tone from her sister, Jenny, and then returned her attention to the huge bowl of brownies she’d been mixing for that day’s sales. “We were out of salt,” she joked, but her voice trembled on the last word.

Without saying anything further, she reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out an envelope, ripped open at the side, and offered it to her sister. Jenny took it as the industrial mixer continued to churn nosily away, the smell of melted chocolate and butter slowly infusing into the kitchen. She waited for her sister’s exclamation of shock and anger.

It had been a long shot, but last month, after weeks of drafting what she thought what a decent proposal, Abbie had applied to the local government for funding to transform the old, boarded up Mediterranean Deli into a Community Centre. She’d been on the internet to check prices for renovation, furniture, stocks of food for those who didn’t know how to cook or couldn’t afford to feed themselves. It had taken her hours.

Fueled by the sadness that dogged her Aunt Ruby, she’d written draft after draft, taking it to the careers advisor at the local college for touch-ups and additions. Abbie was more than happy to run her bakery, Nothing Bundt Trouble, with her sister. Pride in baking got her out of her bed in the morning. Seeing the grins on children’s faces as they tucked into her doughnuts never failed to lift her spirits. But since her Uncle had died, Ruby didn’t want to get up in the morning.

Helping Abbie with the centre application had given her Aunt purpose again, verve, drive. Abbie’s heart squeezed painfully at the thought of that purpose being snatched away.

“What?” Jenny exploded. She started to crumple the letter in her hand, but stopped at the last moment. “That’s not even proper feedback. This project is not right for us at this time. What does that even tell you? If they had to choose between us and heart machines for babies, sure, but…” She trailed off, and dumped the letter on the counter, wrapping her arms around her sister. “We’ll ask someone else. You’ll see.”

Abbie’s shoulders slumped. “There is no one else to ask.” The small town of Witness was dying slowly as people left it for jobs or partners elsewhere. For the bright lights of Atlanta oe Charlotte.

Jenny let go of her sister and shut the brownie machine off. “Don’t want to overmix them,” she muttered, readying a big traybake tin. Behind them, the oven light clicked off, signalling that it was ready to accept the day’s batch of glace cherry-studded brownies. The sisters worked together to smooth down the chocolatey mixture in the tin before sliding it into the oven.

At the other end of the kitchen, a timer beeped and Abbie hurried over to remove two dozen fluffy white rolls from another oven’s smoky depths. As she transferred them to a cooling bench, her brow furrowed. How was she going to tell her Aunt about the failed application? If someone didn’t do something, within a decade the town would be a ghost land. Only the local college saved the town from being scrubbed from the map. The same college that she and Jenny had, herself, attended, before taking over the family bakery.

The town had hardly any money and an aging population. A population that the local government, it seemed, weren’t overly interested in helping.

The mouthwatering scent of freshly baked bread slowly filled the whole kitchen, and Jenny moved to open the sliding door to the shop, getting the place ready for customers. The surfaces gleamed, and sunlight from outside shone in through the shop window, glinting off the glass display cabinet where they kept the brownies and the pretty iced cupcakes. The bread was their staple, but brownies and cupcakes kept their heads above water.

A sharp rap on the back door of the bakery ripped Abbie from her reverie, and she opened the latch.

Joe Corbin stood outside, his rangy figure clad in jeans, a black t-shirt, and a red and white striped apron. "Got your savoury pastries for today," he said with a grin. His gaze darted around the shop. Abbie didn't have to ask to know that he was looking for Jenny. When it came to Joe, she was either oblivious, or selectively blind.

"Thanks, Joe." Corbin had taken over the town pizza place, Smokey Joe's, when his father, August, had died. Abbie could count on her two hands the number of friends she and Jenny had in Witness. Joe was firmly in that number, and August had been, too. "Jenny's in the front."

He tried to mask the disappointment on his face. "Maybe I'll see you for lunch. Pizza's on me."

"Thanks," she said warmly, meaning it.

The clock struck eight as the sisters tied on their shop aprons and flipped the sign from “closed” to “come in, we’re open!” “Better put another batch of brownies on,” Jenny called back to her sister. “Don’t forget, we’ve got that order for the welcome party at the college tonight.”

Calling back her agreement, Abbie set the mixer going again with fresh ingredients and a clean bowl. Down the street, the factory workers would be trooping in to start their 8.15 shift, and Nothing Bundt Trouble was always busy with take-out tea, coffee and bacon roll orders. One of the town's two factories had closed last year. As Abbie sliced the cooked brownies and transferred them to a pretty glass dish for selling, worries about the remaining factory consumed her.

In spite of the lingering shadow on her family, on her late mother, she loved the town, and didn’t want to see it in ruins. Didn’t want to see it turn out as just a place for older people and the poor to stagnate. It didn’t have to end this way. But since she only had two options right now, and seeing as brooding wouldn’t earn her any money, she picked up the brownies and crossed into the shop to help her sister.


	3. Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our lovers first lay eyes on each other

Driving the Nothing Bundt Trouble van, Abbie pulled up to the side entrance of the college. In the back she’d safely stowed two trays of her famed cherry brownies, as well as two dozen sandwiches with various fillings, and a handful of pizza slices donated from Smokey Joe's. She and Jenny had stayed after closing to finish them, making the sandwiches last so they’d be fresh for the party.

Caroline, who lectured in Art at the college, had stopped by the bakery earlier with her friends, all atwitter with news from the college and eager to share the gossip with anyone who would listen. Daniel, the President of the college - who had a secret fondness for Abbie’s lavender shortbread - had hired a new history lecturer. A graduate from Oxford.

Caroline hadn't actually told Abbie this directly, but she had ears. It was a free country after all.

“He’ll be about as popular as a cuckoo in a pidgeon’s nest,” Jenny had muttered as the door had closed behind Caroline. “You know how people around here feel about Oxford types.”

Abbie knew, all right. People here worked hard, and you didn’t have to be rich to be smart. But the fact was, none of the students in this town were rich enough to get into the hallowed halls of Harvard or any similar institutions to Oxford. As a result, anyone born with a silver spoon in their mouth was _unlikely_ to be received with welcome arms.

She had absorbed the information about this Oxford man, and privately wondered how long he would stay in Witness. If he had a golden ticket from such a University, what was he doing here, in this tiny, slowly suffocating corner of the world?

Killing the engine and hopping out of the van, Abbie opened the back doors and began removing trays. She smoothed down her bakery branded apron and, after setting all the food trays on a wheeled trolley, she locked the van up and started to convey them into the college. Frank greeted her by the lifts.

“Abbie! How you doing.” He bent to kiss her cheek, and she smiled. At least Frank had never judged her by the actions of her mother. She sometimes wondered that the people here were happy enough to eat her pastries, but they wouldn’t say hello to her if they saw her on the street.

People in small towns had long memories. Longer in the South.

Frank peeled back a corner of the foil. “Smells delightful.”

“Just the usual,” she said cheerfully. “Some stuff from Joe. And the sandwiches, like you wanted.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and passed him the invoice.

He pocketed it. “I appreciate it, on short notice. We weren’t sure when our new staff member would be arriving. He’s come quite a way, as I’m sure you’ve heard by now,” he added, smiling ruefully at the speed of the grapevine of the town.

“I haven’t actually,” Abbie said truthfully. “I only know he got his degree from Oxford.”

The lift pinged and Frank held the doors for her as she wheeled the baked goods out. The large boardroom was empty, a “welcome!” banner strung from the high ceiling.  Balloons had been tied in bunched around the room, filled with helium. They bobbed cheerfully as Abbie set out her platters, arranging them just so. Although not nosy, she was naturally curious, and surreptitiously glanced at the people who entered the room. She recognised everyone she saw. No one new. A few people greeted her; most of them didn’t.

Being snubbed didn’t bother Abbie. Life had dealt her a harsh hand, but others had it worse. She had learned early on to cherish the people who loved her and ignore the ones who didn’t.

People were people, and as such behaved irrationally.

Frank thanked her as he started pouring bubbly wine into plastic glasses, and Abbie wheeled her trolley back into the lift. Frank would drop the used platters back into the shop in the next few days. All she had to do now was drive home and soak her feet in a hot bath. She might also ask if Jenny wanted to share a few glasses of red wine. They’d earned it. After the hot day, her hair smelled of cheddar from the cheese straws they baked, and she needed some zoning out time.

The lift opened and Abbie wheeled the trolley toward the side door. So focused was she on her mission that she almost missed the lone man standing off to the side, somewhat awkwardly.

He cut a handsome figure – crisp white shirt, open at the neck, no tie. A smart, grey tweed coat hit him mid-thigh over dark jeans. But it was his face that really drew her attention. A short beard hugged his jaw, the same lion’s-mane gold as his hair. Short but thick, a few messy ends framed his face, and the ends kissed his collar. His blue eyes blazed in the descending twilight of the evening.

She knew immediately who he was, and without thinking she set the brakes on her trolley.

“Hey. You’re missing your own welcome party.”

His gaze snapped to hers, and a smile ghosted around his mouth. “Yes, I suppose I am.” His accent was very British - as crisp as biting into the first apple of Autumn.

Abbie glanced towards the safety of her little van. She’d known this stranger for approximately ten seconds. She had a hot bath waiting for her, and the _Mad Men_ boxset. She should go.

But she felt drawn to something about him. He looked so alone, and she knew what it was like to feel like an outsider. She still felt she didn’t belong in the town she’d been born in, some days. Wasn't that the damndest thing.

“You should get up there,” she said lightly. “They’ve got brownies, and I know from experience that they won’t last long.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Just arrived?”

“Today, yes.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. She recognised too well the signs of awkwardness. His shoulders would be heavy with the weight of others’ expectations. She knew what that was like. "I'm.. finding my feet."

"Well, I'm Abbie. My sister Jenny and I run the bakery in town." She offered a hand, hoping she didn't smell too much like cheese.

He shook it. His hands were elegant - wide palm, long fingers. A poet's hand. "Ichabod Crane." His eyes were very blue.

“Welcome,” she said sincerely, and left him to his thoughts. Her hand tingled where they'd touched.

She felt his gaze on her back all the way to her van.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still have mostly no idea what I'm doing. But thanks for being here!


	4. Overhang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chat with Frank, and private imaginings.

“I’m sure you’re ready to call it a night,” Frank began as the last few people cleared the boardroom.

Ichabod rubbed a self-conscious hand over the back of his neck. “Thank you, yes. I’m afraid I am not myself after the journey.”

Frank smiled. “Travelling always takes it out of me, too. Did you get all the materials I left? Handbook? I know it’s not exactly a ripping read…”

“I did. My thanks.” He reached for his coat, shrugged his arms into it. “I have rather a lot of reading, between the syllabus, your documents, and the lectures I have planned for the Historical Society.”

Frank’s smile widened as he parcelled up the last of the brownies and a few uneaten sandwiches. “About that. You probably haven’t noticed yet, but Witness is in serious need of… a shake up. When I first moved here, the Historical Society was a good night out – well, as much as that sort of thing can be a good night out. But, over the years, it’s trailed off. I hoped that, by making fortnightly lectures part of your remit, people might be tempted to attend.”

Ichabod arched a brow. “Out of curiosity, to start with, at least.”

“Ouch,” Frank laughed. “That’s not what I meant, but yeah. People are going to be naturally curious. This is Small Town USA, you know.” He held out the foil-wrapped parcel. “Here. For breakfast or supper.”

“Very kind.” Ichabod accepted the parcel, thinking about Abigail and her delectable brownies.

Her brownies weren’t the only delectable thing about her. Her small face, with a delicate, almost faery chin, and the determined glint in her eyes, as if she didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought, had stayed in his memory throughout the welcome party.

Frank clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, see you bright and early tomorrow morning. Big day for you tomorrow. First class. First History Society lecture.”

Ichabod swallowed. Stiff upper lip, he told himself. He’d handled worse than college kids and lecture nerves. “Indeed.”

He followed Frank out of the building as the older man locked up. The two left by the side door, and Ichabod told himself he wasn’t disappointed that no Nothing Bundt Trouble van sat on the pavement. Why would she have hung around, after all. No reason.

She could be married with children for all he knew.

“The bakery which supplied these refreshments,” he heard himself say as Frank tested the alarm on the door. “Do they usually open early in the morning?”

“Sure. Around eight I think, if you want to grab a morning coffee or a breakfast roll before classes. We have a canteen on site, but NBT’s better, in my opinion. ‘Course, I am biased.”

Ichabod shoved his free hand in his pocket, trying for nonchalance. Let Abigail not be married to Frank. “How so?”

“I know Abbie’s Aunt. She and her sister Jenny, well..” He trailed off as they reached his car, a late model sedan in gunmetal grey. “They’re good eggs, Ichabod. No matter what you may hear. If you know what I'm saying.”

“I have no doubt.”

Frank opened the door of his car and got in. “Night. Welcome to Witness.”

***

Ichabod went home to his new, empty little house.

He fitted his new sheets on to his bed, made a cup of tea – he’d brought Earl Grey from the UK just to tide him over, he knew he would miss home comforts – and thought about Katrina for the first time in a week.

She faded a little more every day, the memory blurring like an out of focus photo, and in his heart of hearts, he had no idea how to feel about that.

He absently touched his chest, where his healed scar lay, and over it, the long silver chain on which his wedding ring hung.

Both the scar and the ring reminded him.

Of her laugh. Her red hair, as vibrant as the sunset. Of their arguments. Of the sickening twist of metal, the blood-

He forced the memory, with its familiar sting, away, and sipped his tea, breathing in deeply. New start. New town, new people.

The night closed in around his new home as he undressed, locating pyjamas in his luggage, and a book he’d bought at the airport, a tight thriller. He knew better than to read such things late in the evening, but he needed something to take his mind off all the thoughts fighting for attention in his head.

He settled into bed with the book and a little portable reading light, the half-finished tea on the floor beside him. After a half hour of reading, he shut the light off, and lay down, closing his eyes and wiling himself to sleep.

His brain refused to be quieted though. Strange town. New people. The excitement of the welcome party. Unexpectedly meeting the enigmatic Abigail. Frank’s warm welcome.

And over it all, the shadow he was always trying to escape. He was somehow ever in its edge, caught in the eye of the storm.

The house settled around him, the odd creak here and there breaking through the noisy, cluttered thoughts. In the middle of it all were Abigail’s soft, dark eyes. Concerned for him, a veritable stranger in her life. Why she should have made an effort to reach out to him was a mystery, but he’d appreciated it all the same.

And he’d let her walk away. Because of all his baggage. Because they’d only just met. Because she could have been someone else’s wife. Lover. Fiancée.

He allowed himself to imagine, for a moment, that she was his. It had been two years since he’d been with a woman. For a long time after Katrina’s death, he hadn’t even been interested in a relationship with his hand, let alone another person.

But tonight was the first time in a long, long time that he would touch himself and fantasize about a woman who wasn’t his late wife.

His hand snaked beneath the loose waist of his pyjamas bottoms, and a breath hissed out between his teeth as he took himself in hand, allowing himself to shrug of the dark cloak of reality for a moment and imagine that the petite Abigail was in his bed. Imagined her moving underneath him, his name on her lips as his hands roved over her, learning every curve, every sweet, sensitive spot. Imagined her dark eyes going opaque as she came, her legs scissored tight around him.

His own orgasm hit him like a train, stealing the breath from his lungs, arching his hips off the bed.

He cleaned up and finished his tea, and slept like the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you for reading! I promise that a dirty metaphysical poetry chapter isn't far off. *wink*


	5. Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt your regular programming for a little bit of Joenny.

Like clockwork, Joe Corbin was at the door again. Jenny pretended not to notice him as she went about her business, stacking Abbie’s trademark lavender shortbread, inhaling the familiar perfume.

She could feel Joe’s steady gaze on her. He said nothing, and part of her wanted to turn to him and demand: _what do you want from me?_

Whatever it was, she didn’t think she could give it. Once upon a time, maybe, but not now. Since her father had left and her mother had died, well…. Mills relationships didn’t end well.

She was a bad bet. And Joe would do well to keep that in mind. Her eyes burned.

“Hey, Mills,” he finally called from the door. “Got your pizza slices, ready to unload.”

She hesitated, but being rude to her friends had never been her style, so she set the shortbread aside and crossed over to him, feeling distinctly unglamorous in her flat work shoes and plain black jeans. “Morning.”

“You doing okay?”

She made herself meet his gaze – deep blue, concerned. “Sure.”

He left it at that and handed her a box of freshly baked pizza slices from Smokey Joe’s.

Despite herself, her stomach growled at the enticing scent of mozzarella, herby tomato sauce, and pan-fried chicken. “Smells amazing.”

He paused in loading. “I put two extra in there. No charge. For your, you know. Lunch.”

A pang hit her in the chest. Joe was too sweet for her. Too good for her. What would this town say if they got together? She shouldn’t care, but somehow, she did.

Jenny was supposed to be the brash, reckless one. The one who stormed in and kicked ass, then asked questions later. Abbie was the thoughtful one. But, deep down, where no one could see, Jenny was still that teenage girl who hungered for answers about her mother.

Who drifted through the world, sometimes feeling that only her sister anchored her. “Thanks, Joe,” she said, sincerely.

And because his eyes were so dark, full of concern and God knew what else, she quickly bussed his cheek before she could think better of it.

His hand came out to touch her, but he must have thought better of it, because she never felt his fingers connect. “You going to see that Oxford dude tonight?”

Jenny raised her brows in question. “There are posters in town. He’s giving a lecture at the Historical Society,” Joe explained.

Jenny snorted. “The WHS is the refuge of the bored and delusional of this town. Hardly anyone goes anymore, do they?”

He smiled wryly. “What’s the betting they will tonight, just to get a look at Mr Oxford?” He checked his watch. “Better get going. College kids got a full day today, and they always get out of classes hungry for pizza.”

She heard him whistling as he climbed back into his van. The thought that her quick kiss might have alleviated his mood made her pulse kick up.

“Was that Joe?” Abbie called from the shop.

Jenny transferred the pizza on to a hot plate and came to join her sister. “Yeah. He says hi. Snuck some extra slices on to our delivery for our lunch.” She patted her stomach. “If he keeps doing that, I’m going to have to buy a size up in jeans.”

Abbie snorted. “Whatever. You’re a biological anomaly. You siphon it off somewhere.” She switched on the overhead lights for the hot display cabinet and rubbed a hand over her eyes. The edge of a hangover dogged her. Last night, she and Jenny had opened a bottle of red wine and drunk half of it. Then she’d taken herself to a hot bath and bed, falling asleep to thoughts of her chance meeting with Tall, Blue-Eyed & British outside the college.

“Joe just said the new guy’s giving a lecture at WHS tonight.”

Abbie looked up from her task. “A resurrection of the History Society. Frank’s in the mood for bold moves.”

Jenny rolled her shoulders. “It could work, I guess. Are you going?”

“Are _you_?”

“There’s not a lot else to do here, you gotta admit.” Jenny opened the cash register to input the correct amount of float and check the receipt roll. “Besides, would I miss a chance to greet our adoring public?”

Abbie frowned. “You get off on provoking them.”

“And you _don’t_?” Their “adoring public” were the more well-off ladies of the town. They more or less controlled the society of Witness – if the town had anything as much as society these days. They invited each other over for lunch, drank coffee and sweet tea in Witness’ one café, and passed judgement on others. They had long ago weighed and measured the sisters Mills, and found them wanting – because of their parents, Jenny knew. Ezra, their father, had walked out, and Lori had, well, she wasn’t on the scene anymore either.

People threw stones at things they didn’t understand. People disliked change. And Jenny disliked people.

Abbie was right. She did provoke stuffed shirts and simpering old ladies. But if she didn’t, who would?

She tidied the sandwich-making counter and some movement outside the window caught her attention.

“Hey, Abs. Looks like tall, Dark and British is here. Unless there’s another awkward-looking stranger in town with hair straight out of a shampoo commercial.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE Ichabbie, but I also have a bit of a soft spot for Joenny. Thank you for reading.


	6. Something to Talk About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod doesn't approve of idle gossip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just stoked at the feedback I'm getting from this. Your words mean a lot to me. Thank you.

Ichabod paused outside the window of Nothing Bundt Trouble, looking inside. Every surface sparkled, freshly and thoroughly scrubbed. A tempting pyramid of millionaire shortbread sat in the centre of the window on a glass display dish. From inside, the scent of sausages and tomatoes, mixed through with the telltale and hunger inducing smell of cheese, wafted.

He caught Abigail's eye as she moved around in the shop. He lifted his hand in a half-wave, and, after a beat, she returned it.

What should he do now? His feet had carried him - with the much appreciated help of Google Maps - to the little bakery. He hadn't really thought further ahead than that. He jiggled the satchel on his back absently. Its leather interior was filled with papers for today's lecturers, and reminder flashcards incase he forgot pertinent points. This was a new education establishment. New students. He wasn't leaving anything to chance.

He had the choice of standing outside awkwardly, or going in awkwardly. He chose to go in.

Just as he headed for the door, a young woman he recognised from the buffet yesterday evening stopped a few feet from him. "Professor... Crane, isn't it?"

He inclined his head, taking in her shoulder length dark hair and green eyes. She wore a fitted white blouse over skinny jeans. "Miss - Caroline?"

"That's me." She grinned, dimples winking in her cheeks. "Just stopping off for your morning roll?"

"Indeed."

She fingered the strap of her canvas bag. "The Mills sisters do bake up a storm. But, there's no contest really, them being the only choice in this town."

Ichabod arched a brow. "Your meaning escapes me," he said, deliberately obtuse. He could see perfectly well where this was going.

Caroline schooled her face into an expression of surprise. "And here I was, thinking that news travelled so fast in small towns. I've said too much. My bad." She clearly did not mean the words. She shot her sleeve up to look at her watch. "Maybe I'll see you for lunch, later. My treat."

He recalled belatedly that she lectured in Art at his new place of work, and bit back a sigh. He had no intention of taking is noon meal with her. "Until later, Miss Caroline."

She waved him goodbye cheerily. He pressed a hand to his stomach absently, feeling queasy at her too-easy dismissal of the women who toiled in the bakery. Mind made up, he pushed into Nothing Bundt Trouble. Abbie's wary face greeted him, and beyond, in the back area where the baking was done, he could see the figure of the woman who had to be her sister.

"Professor Crane."

"Please, do call me Ichabod." He shifted his satchel, aware that the women would have seen him speaking to Caroline. He wanted it known that he did not, and would never, indulge in idle gossip. But how to say that without inferring that she had been the topic of indirect slander?

"I guess informality works better, seeing as I've probably already had my dirty laundry aired," she drawled. When he said nothing, she added, "You met Caroline."

How did she stand it? He wanted to demand. How did she live here, the subject of gossip from others? Moreover, how did those others sleep at night, knowing they made this angelic creature sad? He searched her gaze, and saw not sadness there, but something worse. Acceptance. Resignation.

Purpose clutched at him. If he could make her smile, if it would bring light to even a small part of her day, any effort would be worth it.

"Miss Mills, gossip has never been one of my interests," he said softly. "I am here for a breakfast roll, and nothing else..." he hesitated, the words burning on his tongue. "...save a glimpse of your smile."

She obliged him, and he saw the faint tinge of a blush on her cheeks. The little mint green cap she wore to protect the foodstuffs from her hair was nothing short of adorable. She was nothing short of adorable. He filed away a fantasy of her removing that little cap and setting her glorious, corkscrew curls free as he kissed her breathless.

"One breakfast roll coming up."

He paid her for the foil-wrapped parcel of bread, sausage and egg, a delicious scent drifting from within, and stowed it in his satchel, ready to eat when he arrived at his office. "Perhaps I'll see you at the History Society tonight. 'Tis my inaugural lecture."

Abigail hesitated. He could see the wheels turning in her head, and calculated that she was trying to find a polite way to decline the invitation.

"She'll be there," her sister called from the back of the shop.

"I did not realise that you possessed a talent for ventriloquism in addition to baking," he deadpanned, and made the petite Miss Mills chuckle. The throaty sound was another thing to file away in his ever growing fantasy bank. He told himself to curb it. 

"What can I say. I'm a woman of mystery."

She was that, Ichabod thought as he left the bakery, a smile ghosting around his mouth. Strong yet soft. Beautiful, but with a steely core. One would have to possess that, residing in a small town. He might be new to the US, but small towns were the same the world over. The same cliques of narrow-minded people, the same funding constraints. 

"Professor!"

He turned to see the woman who must have been Abigail's sister, sprinting after him. When he stopped, she skidded to a halt. "Jesus. You've got long legs. I wanted to say.... thanks, I guess." Her gaze and her stance, arms folded, telegraphed discomfort. She wasn't used to the kindness of strangers, he realised, his stomach tightening at the injustice of it all. "I'm Jenny, by the way."

"You are most welcome, Miss Jenny," he replied sincerely. "And I shall be true to my word. Gossip-mongering is a foul pastime, and I make a point not to indulge in poisonous habits."

She tilted her head to the side, as if trying to figure him out. "A lot of people here, well.... let's just say that we find a lot of the events in Witness are invitation only, if you know what I'm saying." She smiled, but her eyes were hard, as if she'd spent years building a wall around herself.

"Perhaps the residents here simply require something new to occupy them," he said thoughtfully, an idea gathering pace in his mind.

Jenny shifted on her feet, clearly intrigued. "Oh yeah? And you're going to give it to them, are you, Oxford?"


	7. Something More Primal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some metaphysical poetry (the dirty kind) to shake up this town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lag. I've been away with the fam for Easter.
> 
> Enjoy this update. All mistakes are my own. I studied poetry at Uni and did rather geek out over this chapter. Now all I need is our favourite Tom to come and read some Donne to me....

A good portion of the small town had turned up to the town Library for the history society lecture.

Abbie took her seat, dressed in a simple denim skirt and puffy sleeved shirt. Jenny had tried to corral her into a slinky dress, and even worse, heels. She knew her sister had designs on the new Professor, but she’d spoken to him precisely two times. It was hardly a solid foundation for romance.

Besides, he wouldn’t stay here. Hardly anyone did.

She shifted in her seat as Jenny joined her, passing her a soda. “Here. Refreshments.”

The History Society had always been held in the Library. Previously it had been allocated its own floor, above the Library itself, but due to budget cuts that had been transformed into storage, and so the HS has been relegated to the basement area of the Library. One side was curtained off as it needed to be refurbished. No one had yet attempted the task.

Abbie idly wondered if Prof. Crane would step up to the plate.

The lectern stood at the other end of the room, empty for now.  Behind it stretched a plain screen. By the side sat a table with an open laptop and a projector, a wire connecting the two.

“Wonder what the topic will be?” Jenny murmured, sipping her own soda. She wore a grey vest top and jeans.

“Joe coming?”

“He’ll be along soon, I think. Just had to close up his shop.”

A few rows away, the old “pillars of society” as Abbie wryly thought of them, sat together, wearing their sweater twin sets with pearls. Miss Kitty, Miss Olivia, and Miss Pauline were all older than God, and owned property on the outskirts of town. They were the last stalwarts of three families who had been very influential in the creation of Witness.

Abbie sighed. For all their self-importance, what was the town now? Barely a dot on the map. If they cared for anything more than appearances, wouldn’t they channel some funds into regeneration?

She had her ideas about why they didn’t back up her application for funding, but she didn’t want to have it out with them. She no longer cared what they thought, but that didn’t mean that she wanted confrontation in front of the whole town. Or anyone save her Aunt, Jenny, Frank and Joe. Her family.

“Ladies.”

Abbie looked up to see Frank making his way over. “Hey, Frank.”

He sat, holding his own soda. “I see everyone’s turned out to see Oxford at work.” He gestured behind him. Even a few teenagers had turned up, slouching in their ripped jeans, but they had come. There really wasn’t anything to do here, Abbie thought sourly.

“Ruby not here?” Frank asked, of their Aunt.

“She’s not feeling well,” Jenny answered.

What she was feeling was disappointed. They’d had to come clean about the community centre application.

Frank looked as if he was going to say something else, but then Professor Crane appeared behind the lectern. In deference to the heat in the building, he wore a white button-down shirt. The top few buttons were undone, revealing a triangle of his chest, lightly furred. Jeans encased his long legs.

His lion’s-mane hair looked tumbled, as if he’d just woken up, or been working and absently-mindedly raking his hands through it.

He looked across the room, and their gazes met and held. His eyes were startlingly blue. She felt something crackle in the air between them.

She’d like to dive into the deep blue of those eyes and never surface.

How would he look at her before he kissed her? In that moment before they made love? Her cheeks grew warm at the thought. Damn  Jenny and all her talk of high heels and dresses, giving Abbie ideas.

 _Not ideas you didn’t have yourself,_ her conscience chided.  _Down, girl._

Then he shuffled his papers, cleared his throat, and the moment was gone.

“Good evening, everyone. My name is Ichabod Crane, and as you may be aware, I am newly installed at the local college as History Lecyturer. Tonight is my inaugural lecture, so, I implore you,” a smile tugged at his lips, “do be kind, if you can.”

A ripple of polite laughter stirred through the room.

“As you may also know,” he continued in an a soft, yet engaging baritone, “My speciality is the Revolutionary War. However, this being my initial lecture, I wish to impart some of the great literature of my home country. You may be familiar with the Metaphysical Poetry of the revered John Donne.”

Abbie noticed that a few of the older heads she could see in the room nodded vaguely.

“This poetry was typically recognised by its inventive conceits, and also by its heavy speculation on religion, but, particularly in Donne’s case, love.” He reached down to the laptop and clicked a few buttons.

He cleared his throat, casting his gaze around the room, to ensure he still held everyone’s attention. Abbie glanced back at the Society Gals behind her. They were all but eating out of his hand. Little wonder. He was the first thing to stir up this own in God knew how long.

“I would very much like to share with you the first Donne poem I had the fortune to read. ‘Tis called _The Flea,_ and is essentially about convincing the object of one’s affection that, as their essences, shall we say, have already been mingled within a flea, there is no reason not to mingle everything else.” His eyebrow arched suggestively.

Another ripple of laughter. Abbie couldn’t help herself from smiling.

With another few keys pressed on the laptop, the text of the poem appeared on the large white screen. As he began to read, Abbie felt herself drawn in by the pull of his deep, soothing voice, like a balm on the rush and annoyances of the day. His words were like a gentle caress on her senses.

"Mark but this flea, and mark in this,  
How little that which thou deny'st me is;  
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,  
And in this flea, our two bloods mingled be;"

When he had finished, he looked up again, and their gazes met. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, and said, “Traditionally, in Donne’s time, the “s” would have been written in an elongated form, to appear as an “f.” I shall leave you to interpret exactly how that changes the very core of his poem, from merely a study of a flea to something deeper, something… entirely more _primal_.”

His gaze cut away from her on the last word. Abbie swallowed hard, wondering if anyone else felt as if their clothes were melting right off at the searing heat of the look he’d given her. _Fucked._ That’s what the poem would have read if the s had been printed like an f.

Holy God.

She heard gasps from the ladies behind and had to bite her lip to stop from laughing.

And he wasn’t finished.

“For my next poem-” he took a sip from a glass of water on the lectern. Abbie watched his long, graceful fingers curl around the glass. “I would like to share with you another of Donne’s poems, “To His Mistress Going to Bed,” a poem filled with the most marvellous of imagery and clever wordplay.”

He clicked the laptop again and another poem appeared on the projector. Several people shifted in their seats.

Ichabod started to read, his eyes finding Abbie’s again in the audience.

When he spoke, it seemed to her that he spoke to her and her alone.

“Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy, until I labour, I in labour lie.”

Her breath hitched.

“Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread, in this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.”

Her heart fluttered, pounding against her ribs. She pressed the cold can of soda against her pulsepoint.

“Licence my roving hands, and let them go,   before, behind, between, above, below.”

She pressed her legs together, hoping no one would know just how damp his words had made her. _Words_. Words, his incredibly suggestive voice, as soft as a feathered kiss, and that blue, blue gaze, and she was more turned on than she’d been in…. longer than she could recall.

If his words turned her every nerve into helpless jelly, what would happen if he touched her?

She’d combust.

When he ended on:  “To teach thee, I am naked first; why then, What needst thou have more covering than a man,” Miss Kitty stood up.

“This is outrageous! This is a _history_ lecture! Not a place to sully the minds of this town with.. with…”

“Amorous verse?” Ichabod asked calmly, completely unruffled. “I apologise, Madam. I thought you had come here to broaden your horizons. The metaphysical poetry movement was pivotal in the history of literature-”

Miss Kitty bristled, her pearls practically bouncing as anger vibrated off every inch of her, from her styled grey hair to her berry red twinset. “Of England, perhaps. But not of America!”

Her cohorts twittered their agreement at her quick response.

Abbie waited to see what the good Professor would do.

He only smiled indulgently. “Forgive me, but were the British people not among the most important colonizers of the Americas? Perhaps we could talk about your opinions on the matter? I should be happy to discuss the main types of colonies and how their influence tracks over to the present day.”

Abbie wished she could have videotaped the goldfish moment Miss Kitty had just before she left the Library, her friends in tow.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. With Great Enthusiasm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little post-lecture chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short chapter. Life is getting in the way - how dare it, etc etc. *grumbles*

Wilting under the heat of the windowless basement, Ichabod rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt as the lecture attendees filtered out of the room.

As he’d been setting up his lecture, shuffling papers, busy work really, to calm his nerves, he had seen the three older ladies in their Sunday best pass by Miss Abbie’s row, look her and her companions over, and sit elsewhere.

Miss Abbie had not noticed as she'd been chatting to her sister.

_But he had._

And it was with a glad heart that he’d shaken them up with the amorous poetry. It had been his _absolute_ pleasure.

“Professor.”

He looked up from shutting down the laptop to see the object of his thoughts waiting by the lectern, alone.

“Miss Abigail.”

She shrugged her small shoulders. “You can call me Abbie. Especially after.. that. Thank you. You didn’t need to do that.”

He smiled slightly. “You may rest assured that they will now most certainly have something to talk about. It would be my pleasure to hold another scandalous lecture. As many as you require, in fact. I would plan them with the greatest of enthusiasm.”

Her eyes sparkled, and he was inordinately glad to have put the gleam in those gorgeous brown depths. “No doubt you’ll have gained John Donne some fans.”

“One can only hope.” He closed the laptop and unplugged all the equipment.

“I’d like to….” She hesitated, seeing to search for words. “Maybe we – Jen and I – could make you dinner? To say thanks.”

His pulse skittered at the sudden thought of her at a stove, stirring something decadent. Chocolate perhaps. Which he would spread over her skin, and lick off. Slowly. As she-

“There really is no need,” he heard himself say, ever the gentleman. He hated himself sometimes.

She reached out and touched his hand as he packed away the projector. “You don’t know how nice it is – what you did for me. But I do. So let me say thank you. This is the South, remember? Good Southern ladies show gratitude with food.”

He felt himself smile. “Then I should be only too pleased to accept.” He reached into his pocket and fished out a business card from his previous post at Oxford University, then scribbled his new cell number on it. “This is my contact number should you wish to make arrangements.”

She took it, and a shiver of awareness skittered up his arm as their hands touched again.

“I hope you haven’t put your position at the college in jeopardy,” she began, awkwardly.

“I can safely say that he hasn’t,” Frank said from behind her. “Great lecture, Professor. In fact, might be that you’re exactly what this town needs. A breath of fresh air.”

Ichabod shifted on his feet, uncomfortable with being the subject of attention suddenly. “Let us hope my young students share your sentiments.”

Frank laughed. “You’re the most interesting thing to happen to this town in some time, Oxford. I can’t wait to see what your plans are.”

Abbie met his gaze as she pulled her tote bag on to her shoulder. Her lips curved, and in that moment he wished he could just lean forward and taste her, right on the charming, intoxicating cupid’s bow of her mouth. “Good night, Professor.”

“Ichabod. Please.”

“Ichabod,” she repeated softly.

He’d love to hear her say his name in such a way under more… intimate circumstances.

“I’ll drive you home, Abbie,” Frank offered, and she took his arm with a grateful smile.

Ichabod finished packing his items as they left, the door swinging behind them.

He hoped that he’d dream of the delectable Miss Abigail this evening. And every night hence.

As he headed for the door himself and ascended the stairs, he caught a glimpse of Caroline waiting by the door.

 


	9. Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our hero does not care for the attentions of another; and a little bit of Joenny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick chapter, as I unexpectedly had a further half hour to spare. Enjoy, and THANK YOU all for reading. Your comments really, really make my day.

Jenny stopped by Smokey Joe's on her way home, and rapped on the door. She stood on her toes to see above the frosted glass panel. Joe was moving around inside with one of his employees, cleaning tables, a black and white apron wrapped around him, a spare dishcloth slung over his shoulder. He looked tired.

After a moment he appeared at the door and let her in. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." She waited as he locked the door behind her. He smelled of rosemary and garlic and clean sweat - a surprisingly heady combination. Shame you didn't make it."

"Yeah, I wanted to. We got busy all of a sudden. A few kids came by talking up the WHS though - that's  _never_ happened." He disappeared into the back for a second and came out with a Smokey Joe's pizza box. "I saved a few slices. Hungry?"

"Always."

They sat down at one of the ten tables in the eatery, and Joe opened the box to reveal a pepperoni, meatball and mushroom pizza. Jenny dug in with gusto.

"So what happened?"

Jenny gave him a run down. By the end Joe was barely holding back his snorts of laughter. "I would have killed to see that," he said, peeling up another slice of the lukewarm pizza. 

"It was pretty great. And, get this - Abs texted me just now. She's invited the new Professor to dinner."

Joe almost choked on his mouthful. "That  _is_ big news."

"I can't wait." She was practically rubbing her hands with glee. 

 

* * * 

 

Ichabod really had no time for Caroline, but she was his colleague, so he told himself he had to make allowances.

"Miss Caroline."

She smiled warmly. He had to admit that she cut a fine figure in tight-fitting capri pants and a pink blouse, but his imagination had already been captured by dark curls and coffee-brown eyes. "Hey, Professor. Great lecture. I'm really keen to learn more about Donne's poetry. Do you fancy a nightcap?"

He shifted his lapotp bag. "I'm unsure if there's anywhere open at this hour, but I thank you for the offer. I'd be pleased to discuss his poetry at the college tomorrow. In the staff room, perhaps."

She moved to block his way subtly. A small shift, but he noticed it. "That's okay - my house is just round the corner. And I've got some fantastic coffee - home grown in Cornwall, near your home turf, right?"

"I've not visited in a long while. Miss Caroline, thank you, but I'm still acclimatizing to my new surroundings, as well as a new time zone. I have much to catch up on, most of all sleep."

Her lips formed a moue of disappointment for a moment but she quickly recovered. "Another time, then."

"Perhaps."

She walked with him to the car - car was a stretch, it was a complete rustbucket - he had purchased from a dealer near the airport. It would do for now, until the sale of his home in the UK completed, and  his earnings from the college started to accumulate. As he unlocked the door, she added, "Great job tonight. Really. You certainly had me wondering about the British imagination. Maybe you'll share it with me sometime."

Her words were innocent enough, but her meaning couldn't have been clearer if she had announced it from the roof of his house with a loudspeaker. "Goodnight, Miss Caroline."

They parted ways, and he drove, gratefully, back to his new home, parked, and unlocked the door, setting his briefcase in the hallway. He had forgotten about the broken hook and tried to hang his jacket in the dark, finally folding it atop his briefcase and finding the light switch. The bulb hung listlessly from the ceiling, the glow too bright, like a desperately sad person forcing themselves to show outward cheer.

He thought of Abigail and a wave of compassion and anger, on her behalf, welled up inside him as he undressed, washed and slid into bed. The sheets were cool against his skin, which was flushed with a mixture of unrest, frustration and desire. 

He had known Abigail Mills for - what, going on forty-eight hours, and he'd already dreamed up a dozen fantasies involving her small, slim frame, beautiful mouth, and large, expressive eyes. He'd already wondered how she'd feel, body bowing under his hands. How the secret caverns of her body would taste, in the darkness of his bedroom.

It felt wrong, lusting after her so. He would attempt to be the gentleman. Accept the friendship she offered.  _Goodness knows, her life seems complicated enough as it is, without me wading in to the fray._

Turning over, he forced himself to sleep, ignoring an erection he refused to touch.

 

 


	10. A Box of Treasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This would no doubt, be a coat for all seasons.
> 
> That's right.

"Well,  I never," Ruby cackled the next day as Jenny set a plate of French toast and eggs down infront of her. "Abbie's bringing  a man to dinner." She eyed her niece over the rim of her coffee cup. "Could be he'll have some ideas about how to perk up this one horse town."

"That's not the ideas Abs wants him for," Jenny muttered, and laughed when her sister elbowed her.

"Shut up," Abbie replied darkly, forking up eggs.

She felt just sick about the Professor coming to dinner. Why had she done it? Oh yes. Out of gratitude. But she could have left the invitation open. Should have. He would have been pleased with the thought of the invite. She needn't have followed through.

But, glutton for punishment that she was, she'd texted him and asked him to come over this evening.  _Lord._

Aunt Ruby and Jenny were practically leaping around the house with unbridled glee. At least, Ruby's spirits had picked up, and Abbie was very glad of it. Ruby had raised her, after Ezra's abandonment and Lori's.. going away, and there was nothing Abbie wouldn't do for the older woman. She would cut off her own arm at a moment's notice if it would make Ruby happier. More comfortable. Anything.

They continued to eat breakfast together.

"You should have seen this guy, though, Aunt Rubes," Jenny continued, pouring them all more coffee from the pot in the centre of the table. "He shook Miss Kitty and her friends up. It was  _awesome._ "

Ruby smiled. "I'd have liked to see that, for sure." She stood up from the table, leaning on her walking stick. Abbie stood too, but Ruby waved her off. "Don't help me none, now. I've gotta learn," she chuckled. She had always suffered from bad knees, and her age was exacerbating the complaint. Abbie sat awkwardly, feeling her stomach clench.

Ruby made it to the sink and poured herself a glass of water. Abbie kept an eye on her Aunt and glanced around the kitchen. What would the Professor - Ichabod, she reminded herself - think of her home? Small but tidy, it wasn't much, but she and Jenny had grown up within these walls. 

He had come from Oxford though. She'd googled it, and been in awe of the architecture, charming canal, and castle within the town. 

He'd seemed so nice the times they had spoken. She should not be worried about his opinion of her home. But it still chewed at her.

"What are you going to cook, then?" Jenny asked.

Abbie stared at her empty plate and took a fortifying glug of coffee. "I'd better get on that."

 

* * * 

Ichabod taught a class in the morning. In the afternoon, he busied himself fetching supplies from the hardware store in the next town over. A mop. A dustpan. Rags. Polish for the floor and the furniture, such as it was. Kitchen cleaners, and a vacuum. He carted it all back to the house and wore himself out blitzing the place, until every surface shone.

It still looked a heap, but a  _clean_ one at least. He leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping a well-earned cup of Earl Grey, thinking about the place. What colour he'd paint the walls. How he would make the place say "welcome" when he came in, rather than "oh, you're back."

When he tired of sketches and lists, he let himself in to the library basement where he had held his first WHS lecture. Where he had gained an enemy of Miss Kitty and her ilk. He couldn't care a whit less. He had made Abigail's eyes shine, and the expression of unfettered hope on her face had been worth a hundred of Miss Kitty.

He pushed aside the curtained off area of the basement and found some stacked chairs and desks, a flipchart boardwith some yellowed pads of paper pinned to the front, and an old, wooden trunk, prettily engraved with little flowers and the letters WHS. It looked like a throwback from a grander time, and his fingers twitched with curiosity.

To his relief, the trunk was unlocked. He knelt by it, and eased the lid open. The creak split the silence of the room, and small spores of dust danced into the air. Ichabod coughed them away, and peered into the cavern of the trunk.

Clothes. Many clothes. They looked period style. He laboured under no illusion that they were originals. They were replicas.

He rested the open lid of the trunk against the wall and took a garment out, shaking it, and holding it at arm's length. 

The coat would probably nearly reach his knees. The collar was high, conforming to the style of the time. Colonial, he reckoned. Shiny buttons marched down either side. The wool felt soft under his fingers. It would no doubt be a coat for all seasons. Deflecting the heat in summer and the cold in winter. The workmanship of the stitches and the cut was very fine indeed.

He set it aside, and rummaged through the rest of the trunk. More than a dozen costumes were contained inside, as well as the town standard, matching Witness' crest of two lions, standing side by side. It had been beautifully sewn into the square standard, which would be hoisted on poles.

An idea formed in the back of his mind as he looked through the box of treasures.

At the very bottom, he saw a pair of boots. Knee high, they were made of soft, pliable leather, and smelled faintly musty from lack of use. The tops had been folded down, again to mimic the eighteenth-century style. Out of sheer curiosity, Ichabod shucked off his shoes and pulled them on over his jeans. Then he slid the coat on over his arms.

And stood in the basement of a library, wearing re-enactment clothing over jeans, feeling.. faintly ridiculous. Smiling to himself, he packed it all back into the trunk and drew the curtain as his smartphone alarm sounded, reminding him to change in time for his dinner appointment at Miss Abigail's home.

An hour later, wearing fresh jeans and a dark grey suit jacket over a crisp white shirt, the neck slightly open, he arrived at her door,  self-consciously plucking at the lapels of his jacket. In his other hand, he held a bouquet of wildflowers obtained from the local florist, who had loved his accent and asked him if he'd been in an episode of _Downtown Abbey_. Charmed, he had indulged her.

But now there was nothing to calm his nerves. Nothing that stood between him and the delectable Miss Mills, save the door.

He rang the bell.


	11. Home Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner at Chez Mills, and a quiet moment afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not from the south, so I've googled, but my knowledge of the food there is limited. As ever, all mistakes are my own.

Abbie finished plating up the last of the fried chicken, okra and salad on the table, when the bell rang.

She scooped her hands through her hair, untied and hung up her apron, and padded into the hallway.

And she opened the door to Professor Ichabod Crane from England, looking nothing short of delicious. His hair, an autumnal gold in the early evening sunlight, curled a little over the collar of his smart grey suit jacket. His blue gaze held hers, solemn, but a warm smile curved his lips. In one hand, he held a gorgeous spray of wildflowers, wrapped in barely-there silver paper, tied with a sunny yellow bow. "Good evening, Miss Abigail."

The timbre of his voice sent a pleasant little shiver skating down her spine. "Hey."

He proferred the bouquet. "I took the liberty of bringing you something of a hostess gift."

"Beautiful," she smiled, taking them.

"'Tis indeed of great beauty," he agreed softly, but his eyes hadn't strayed from her face. She felt her cheeks heat, and opened the door wider. "Please, come in."

She closed the door behind him, again wondering what he'd think of her home. "I wasn't sure what you'd like, so I just made some southern food."

"I look forward to it very much."

She led him into the dining room, where the table was set. The food was arranged in the centre, and Abbie had used her best china for the place settings. She'd also slid folded napkins under the cutlery, and set a small vase of azaleas at one end.

"You needn't have gone to all this trouble."

She smiled at him, leading him through the kitchen where she selected a vase for the wildflowers he'd brought. "You needn't have provoked Miss Kitty. But you did. One good turn... deserves another, don't you think?"

"I can't disagree." He leaned against the kitchen counter, casually folding his arms over his chest. The kitchen was small but long, and he somehow managed to take up all of it. As she passed him to get scissors, the faint scent of sandalwood and mint drifted to her. It was intoxicating.

"Hey, Professor," Jenny called, poking her head around the kitchen door.

"Good evening, Miss Jenny."

Abbie heard the telltale tap of her Aunt Ruby's walking stick before the older woman appeared in the doorway. 

"Well, well, I've been looking forward to meeting you, Professor Crane."

"This is my Aunt Ruby," Abbie provided.

Abbie hung back as Ichabod held out his hand in greeting to her Aunt. When Ruby took it, he lifted her smaller hand and bowed over it very slightly. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Ruby."

A smile curved Ruby's mouth. She had applied lipstick in honour of their guest, and it pleased Abbie - to see the woman she loved so come back to herself, even a little. "Well, your mama certainly raised you right." Pleased, she tapped her way to the table.

Ichabod got there slightly before her and pulled her chair out, then did the same for Abbie and Jenny, before seating himself. "Well. This looks to be divine fare."

"It's just fried chicken and okra," Abbie demurred, offering him the serving platter.

He took it. "You, Miss Abigail, have gone to the trouble of preparing a meal for me. 'Tis no small trifling, and I am very grateful for your hospitality." He served himself some chicken and the others soon dug in, until all four had full plates.

"Dig in," Ruby announced. Then, "So, Professor-"

"Ichabod, please."

"So, you've been here about five minutes, what do you think of our little town? It's not much to look at, but we call it home."

"I'm finding my feet," he answered after taking a bite. "I believe any transition can be tiring and exciting in equal parts. I have a lot of time for President Irving, he seems a good man. I've not met many of my colleagues yet. Although I do fear that I'll need to start exercising in earnest if I intend to frequent Nothing Bundt Trouble for my morning roll."

Ruby smiled and poured him some sweet tea. "Frank is a good man. And I'm glad you've been to the bakery already. I'm damned proud of my babies and what they've achieved."

"Aunt  Ruby," Jenny muttered, blushing.

"No, I am, and I don't say it enough." She looked Ichabod right in the eye. "Abbie told me what you did for her yesterday evening. I'm much obliged to you, Ichabod. A lot of people believe what they hear and never look past it."

Ichabod nodded in agreement. "We should each be judged on our own words and actions, and not those of others, I have always believed." He glanced at Abbie, and held her gaze for a long moment.

Something she couldn't quite  name sparked between them.

"This is delicious," Ichabod said into the comfortable lull. 

"Abbie made it herself," Jenny replied.

Abbie felt her face heat. "I'm not five," she murmured, and Jenny laughed.

"My Abbie is a bright light under a bushel," Ruby said, forking up some salad. "She never blows her own trumpet, so I make a point to do it for her. Did you know she wanted to turn the old Deli into a community centre for has-beens like me to meet people?"

"You are  _not_ a has-been, _"_ Abbie said fiercely.

Ruby ignored her and barrelled on. "The local government committee turned her down. And for what? I bet I know who had a hand in it. Not that I'm one to gossip. But I think you get my meaning, don't you, Ichabod?"

The Professor inclined his head in silent agreement. Abbie saw something pass over his face. It looked as if he'd been gifted an idea. But he simply chewed his meal and said nothing.

"It's a shame," Jenny added. "It was a great idea, Abs."

"Your generosity of spirit is a credit to you," Ichabod said softly. Abbie felt his gentle words all the way to her toes.

They finished their meal with talk of upcoming events in nearby towns. Ruby asked Ichabod questions about Oxford and the weather there, if there really was a castle (yes, albeit a small one), if he had been "punting" on the canal (yes he had), what his favourite British food was (something called a Bedfordshire Clanger) and if he would cook it for them one day (he'd be only too happy to oblige).

He spoke about his heap of a house, which needed a full renovation. Jenny mentioned more than one Abbie's skill in painting. 

Abbie kicked her sister under the table, feeling a bit like a prize cow being sold at market. Jenny pretended not to feel the kicks. 

When the last morsel was eaten, Abbie stood, but Ichabod gently stayed her hand. "Please, let me clean up. The cook should not have to wash, as well."

She thanked him, feeling strangely at peace as he stacked the dishes and carted them into the kitchen. As Jenny brought in the last few items, he shrugged off his jacket, hung it on the apron hook, rolled up his sleeves, and filled the sink with hot water and started to do the dishes.

"You do  _not_ have to do that," Abbie said from the doorway. She wondered what he saw. The old sink. The chipper counter. The tired paintwork, badly in need of an overhaul.

Jenny slipped out of the room to wipe the table down.

"Perhaps not, but you didn't have to invite me into your home and offer me a meal," he countered. "The least I can do is clean up to show my thanks."

Abbie closed the kitchen door. "No, the least you could do would be nothing," she replied softly.

Ichabod paused in the dish washing and met her gaze. "What would you have of me, Miss Abigail? If you'd like me to pretend not to care, then I cannot, and if you'd like me to pretend to be the sort of man who watches idly as you clean up after a meal you took effort upon, then I refuse to take up that mantle." He soaped a serving platter and stacked it in the drying rack.

"My mom killed herself," Abbie blurted out.

Ichabod's hands stilled in the water. 

"And then my Dad walked out."

His gaze was fixed on her face, saying nothing.

"Aunt Ruby raised me. I've never had any... lasting romantic relationships. I can't seem to hold one down, although I want to. I sometimes feel this town is suffocating me. The Community Centre felt like a last-ditch attempt to... make something of myself. Prove myself to the people who stare at me in the street, wondering if I'll turn out like my Mom."

She breathed out hugely after the last word. She didn't know what she'd expected. That he'd turn and flee? That he would berate for her keeping secrets, although they'd just met.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked, his words a gentle caress.

"Because I don't want you to find out from someone else. Because, if you... care, I want you to know. That I feel like a mess." She scrubbed a hand over her face. "I don't even know, sometimes."

He moved from the sink and gently grasped her upper arms, looking down into her face, and his soapy hands on her skin felt like a precious anchor whilst she swayed in her own personal storm. "Miss Abigail. It has not escaped my notice that we have just met, however, to me you appear far from a mess. You run your own business with your sister. You want to change the town and you aren't afraid to reach for your dreams. And you care for your Aunt and keep a roof over her head."

She saw herself reflected in his eyes, and for a crazy moment, all she wanted was for him to wrap his arms around her tightly and never let her go. Instead, she said weakly, "Thanks."

Jenny rapped on the kitchen door. "Hello in there? Can we have dessert yet?"

* * *

 

They said goodbye on her porch. Ichabod kept his hands tucked in his back pockets, wanting to touch her far too much. "Thank you again for a delightful evening."

"Oh yeah, it was great, particularly the bit where I extolled my  _many_ virtues and spot-free past to you," she deadpanned.

He did touch her now, grasping her arms gently as he had in the kitchen. "I am not baggage free myself. But that is a story for another evening," he added, looking up at the shiny orb of the moon, hanging low in the sky.

"I'd like to hear it."

"You shall. I promise." His thumb rubbed slow circles on her bare arm. "Thank you. For everything. The welcome, the food. For allowing me to meet your Aunt. I do like her a great deal."

She looked up at him, her eyes huge in the darkness of the evening. Only the dim porch light lit her, and the soft glow picked out the sweet curve of her face, the fall of her hair, the curls so enchanting. The lines of her colllarbone in the scoop-necked dress.

"There's one thing you haven't thanked me for yet," she whispered.

"Oh?"

Anything else he might have said was stoppered when she lifted herself on tiptoes to press a chaste kiss to his lips. Ichabod's heart pounded as they stood still together, her lips on his and his hands on her arms. She tasted of the perfect summer evening; like water to a man dying of thirst. When her lips parted under his and her tongue stole inside, he had to struggle not to yank her fiercely against him, settling instead for breathing her in. Their tongues tangled, and his breathing quickened as she nipped at his lower lip.

All too soon she broke the kiss, and when he opened his eyes, there was something like wonder sketched on her beautiful face.

All the way home, he thought that this evening was the first time in months that he had felt anything akin to true contentment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Period Costume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe and Ichabod meet, and the coat makes another appearance.

For the next few days, Ichabod worked tirelessly on his little house. He had no lectures to give, but he spent a few hours each morning planning his next few classes, already anticipating what the bright minds of his students would throw at him. They were all eager to learn, and seemed pleased at his half-dramatisation, half-history lesson style. He knew that he had learned better when history came in the form of stories and first-hand accounts, and his students had taken to this like ducks to the proverbial water.

He had suggested that the staff come to lessons next week in some sort of costume relating to their subjects. It would be a bit of fun. A way to shake up things in a small way. The suggestion had been met with enthusiasm for the most part. After all, the term was coming to an end, and at Oxford the end of term had always meant shenanigans and fun, to ease the pressure of exams and results.

However, Caroline had quietly suggested that perhaps she come swathed only in paint as her subject was art. Ichabod had counter-suggested that perhaps she make herself a costume from paper-mache. To ward off the cold, of course. She hadn't seemed best pleased.

He'd been to the hardware store another two times thus far. He stood in the centre of his living room, surrounded by cleaning debris, and a half-built mantlepiece. The old mantle had been so old and crumbling that it had been easily pried off with a edge of a claw hammer. The mouth of the fireplace was empty, and he planned to tile it and perhaps fill it with shaped logs, or plan white church candles.

He thought of Abigail. What she might do with the space. How she'd add her touches to make it a home.

"No getting ahead of yourself, Ichabod," he grumbled to himself as he bent to finish painting the new mantlepiece. They'd shared one kiss. One kiss and a few home truths - from her side.

One  _scorching_ kiss that had made him think about more for hours.

Anger on her behalf had fair consumed him on his solitary walk home. How the townsfolk could judge her for the actions of her parents. He knew what they were all thinking.  _The apple does not fall far from the tree._ Hadn't Katrina said something similar just before the accident? 

He tried to think dutifully of his wife, who was likely turning in her grave at his kiss with the delightful Miss Mills three days ago. Tried to think about the good times they'd shared, and there  _had_ been good times. When he had truly been deeply in love with her; in awe of her winding crimson hair, her bewitching green eyes.

But....

He slid the paintbrush over the wood, the paint a dark, gentleman's smoking room green. He planned to paint the chimney breast the same colour. Then he'd need to sand the floors, make them shine.

If he truly wanted to make a semblance of a life here, he had to give it his all.

An hour later, truly tired out, he rubbed a hand through his hair. He needed to get out in the fresh air. Needed to speak to someone besides his sorry self. His stomach complained and he at once thought of the pizza place - what was it called? Smokey Joe's?

A quick Google told him it was open for lunch. Spurred on by the idea of a hot, delicious pizza, he changed and grabbed his keys.

The sun beat down as he walked to the small main street of Witness, passing the Deli Abbie's family had spoken of. Cupping his hands around the glass, he peered in. Indeed, it was abandoned, but it looked as if the space had good bones. It was large inside, and a skylight to the left would be the ideal place for a gathering area to enjoy the sun without being outside.

A wave of desire to support Abigail and her good nature washed over him, and he thought back to the costumes in the Historical Society, buried in that trunk. If the past newspapers he had found online were any indication, they were used in the abandoned yearly WHS Summer festival. Of course, as the economy had downturned and people had left, the festival had petered out.

But what if he started it up again? Made history the focal point? He could invite his colleagues to come over. Pull some strings, call in some favours. Get experts from other parts of the world. Maybe a play or two - something light-hearted. And what about asking Abigail and her sister to bake some colonial recipes to get everyone talking?

He made himself put the mental brakes on. He hardly knew anyone here. There was little to no reason to think that they would support an Englishman coming herre and trying to overhaul things.

He would need to get to know Abigail better before he floated the idea. But if he knew one thing, it was that she and her sister were the key to re-invigorating this town.

He would have to see how costume day went at the college and time it from there.

Leaving the window of the closed-down Deli, he opened the door of Smokey Joe's. The smell of mozzarella, pepperoni and frying mushrooms hit him right in the stomach, and he almost groaned out loud.

It was quiet still, with only two of the eatery's ten tables occupied. He slid into a vacant one by the window and picked up the laminated menu card.

"Welcome to Smokey Joe's."

Ichabod looked up to meet the gaze of a tall man, broad-shouldered, wearing a grey and white checked apron. His blue eyes were warm as he half-smiled. A pencil was tucked behind his ear, slightly ruffling his thick, short brown hair. 

"You must be Professor Crane."

"Guilty, as charged."

The man held out his hand. "I'm Joe."

"Pleasure." They shook hands.

"Listen, whatever you want is on the house."

Ichabod shook his head. "That is too kind. I couldn't possibly-"

"Hey man. You can and you will. What you did at that lecture was priceless. The whole town's talking about it."

Ichabod couldn't help but wince. "Truly?"

"Yeah, and it's  _awesome._ We need a shake-up. Abigail - she's like family to me. So. It's on me. If you come back after that, you bet that I'll charge you," Joe added good-naturedly. "So what'll it be?"

* * * 

 

Abbie was getting antsy.

She hadn't seen much of Ichabod, save the two times he had popped into her bakery for a morning roll.

It wasn't that she doubted he had changed his stance on "caring" for her. His warm smiles and lingering touches when she gave him his food and his change had reassured her on that front. They had exchanged a few text messages, on which he'd kept her updated on the process of his home improvements. And she knew from Jenny that he and Joe had met.

It was that she wanted to spend time with him. Find out what lay behind those beautiful azure eyes. Learn about his life. What had he been like as a child? As a teenager? What made him laugh? What made him angry?

She had never been so hungry for information about a person.

Jenny snapped her fingers infront of her sister's face. "Earth to Abs."

Abbie blinked. "Sorry. I was...."

"Somewhere with a recent resident of Witness who comes from Oxford? Yeah, I know  _that._ What I don't know is what you two talked about when you closed the kitchen door."

Stuffing her hands in the pocket of her apron, Abbie shrugged. "I.... I just told him everything. About Mom and Dad."

Jenny frowned. "And what did he do?"

"He said that I wasn't a mess. And that he cares."

"I'm not surprised. I liked the way he - oh my God." Jenny poked her sister and pointed out of the window.

The man from Oxford was approaching their bakery in full blown re-enactment gear.

A deep navy coat, shiny buttons marching down the sides, buffeted his lean form. Beneath, he wore a light grey shirt, fastened with loosely knotted ties, over a neck-cloth tied almost to his chin.

She wanted to unwind it very slowly.

Some sort of old-fashioned trousers - breeches, she guessed - encased his legs. His shirt had been tucked into them, and her gaze fell to a square arrangement of buttons just below his waist. Idly she wondered if it opened all the way.

Knee-high boots completed his ensemble, along with a tricorn hat, which he took off as he reached the doorway.

She managed to remember to swallow just as he crossed the threshold. She had no idea she had a secret thing for men in period costume. Maybe she hadn't before.

But she sure as hell did now. Between setting eyes on him a few feet from the door and his entering the shop, her clever brain had conjured at least a dozen fantasies of what he could do to her whilst wearing that outfit. 

 


	13. History Waits for No Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Costume day, and a back-alley kiss.

Ichabod doffed his tricorn hat as he crossed the threshold of the bakery. He couldn't suppress a smile at the look on Abbie's face, which seemed stuck somewhere between confusion and desire.

He deeply hoped it was most of the second.

"Good morrow to you, Miss Abigail, Miss Jenny," he said, performing a deep, colonial-era courtly bow.

" _Damn,_ Abbie said.

"What is.... this?" Jenny asked, gesturing at his get-up. 

He returned to his full height, noted that Abbie's mouth was still slightly open. "It is costume day at the college. My idea, which I am relieved to say, the students and fellow lecturers were on board with. Each lecturer dresses in something which relates, in some way, big or small, to their subject."

"Really." Jenny tucked her hands in her apron. "What's Frank going as?"

"I am looking forward to finding out."

Abbie finally found her voice. "Ichabod. Can I, ah, have a minute 'round back?"

"Of course." Bemused, he followed her through the small shop and out of the door marked STAFF ONLY to the delivery area. Outside, it was breezy yet, but the orb of the sun hovered high in the sky, promising a beautiful, cloudless day.

The door swung shut behind them. He felt faintly ridiculous, standing in the back alley of a bakery wearing full colonial regalia.

"Where did you find these?" Abbie asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"In a closed-off area of the WHS basement. In a trunk. I think they perhaps harken back to the days when the WHS ran a festival."

Her eyes softened as she held his gaze. "When I was small, the costumed parade went past our house. I remember my dad holding me on his shoulders so I could see everything. On the eve of the festival, the parade was always  late, and it would be dark by the time they came our way. They would hold bonfire sticks made with proper pitch, and the smell still reminds me of him."

Ichabod didn't know what else to do, so he gathered her in his arms, resting his chin on the top of the mint bakery cap she wore. She accepted his embrace willingly.

"I am profoundly sorry if this ... costume has brought painful memories to the fore," he whispered.

"No, it isn't that. Actually, it was pretty nice to think about my dad in a good way," she confessed at length. "I like the costume."

"Truly?"

Her hand came up and she rubbed the lapel of his woollen coat between her thumb and forefinger. "It suits you." She lifted her face up, her other hand gently stroking his jaw, and he eagerly accepted her invitation, capturing her lips in a soft kiss that quickly became more heated. His hat fell to the floor, unnoticed, as he tightened his grip on her small waist, tugging her closer, greedily swallowing her soft gasp of pleasure as their tongues touched.

He could have kissed her forever. And then longer.

Finally she pulled away, and he saw with some satisfaction that her skin was slightly reddened by the scratch of his beard. He'd like to see that rosy tint on other places of her body, too.

"You'd better get going. History waits for no man," she teased.

He cupped her face, stilling her for a moment. "Have dinner with me. Let me return the favour. My house isn't much, at the moment, but your presence in it would be extremely welcome."

He must have said the right thing, because she nodded, her eyes warm with pleasure. "That'd be great. Just let me know when. I'm looking forward to seeing Chez Crane."

He frowned. "Such as it is."

"Don't sweat it. You've only been here five minutes. It's a work in progress."

 _Like me,_ he thought as she kissed him goodbye, after walking him through the shop and pressing a breakfast roll into his hands, waving away the cost. Jenny waved him goodbye out of the window.

He might only have been here for five minutes, Ichabod thought as he walked to the college, but already he was feeling quite at home.

He absently touched the silver chain around his neck, and wondered if he might soon be ready to take it off.

For good, this time.

 

* * * 

He arrived at the college to find the costumes already in full swing. Caroline, blessedly, had decided to wear a giant cardboard painting easel, with a cardboard paint pot as a hat. The result was surprisingly effective, and he told her so, managing to sidestep her hug subtly.

Dr Lester, the math lecturer, wore a sandwich board painted a calculator, which looked awesome but seemed extremely difficult to move in. He crossed the room awkwardly to greet Ichabod, and narrowly avoided smacking Frank in the face when he bent to retrieve his satchel.

Professor Fisher of English Literature had come dressed as Sherlock Holmes, with her TA dressed as Watson, wearing a rather adorable stick-on handlebar moustache and bowler hat.

All in all, lessons were a little disrupted due to photographs and poking fun at the costumes, but the students greatly enjoyed the costume day. When the college closed its doors, Frank - who had, by his own admission, taken the "easy way out, as I have zero craft skills" and come in a spiffy suit as President Obama - informed everyone that Witness had been trending on Facebook and Twitter for the first time in, well, ever.

"It's the first time that I have felt that this little town might have some hope, after all," he told everyone in the poky staff room. "And it's thanks to our new faculty member, Ichabod Crane."

Awkward with the praise, Ichabod huffed a bit with pleased embarrassment as the other staff congratulated him. He was feeling as if there could be a place for him here, after all. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks everyone for your love & comments!!
> 
> It's all going quite well for Ichabod at the moment. Next chapter: more plot, and a bit of angst from the locals.


	14. Putting Down Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwelcome visitor, and dinner preparations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading! I'm chuffed to bits with your feedback.

The next day, Ichabod sorted papers in his office, marking essays and setting up some pre-exam quizzes for his students. A few of them had sent him emails with photos he had posed for with them yesterday, and he had allowed himself five minutes' break to chuckle over them, feeling warm inside over their acceptance of him, a foreigner.

The phone on his desk rang and he answered it absently. "Ichabod Crane speaking."

"Professor, I'm sorry to bother you," Jane, the college receptionist said down the line. "There's a visitor for you - a Miss Kitty? Do you know her?"

Jane came from out of town and Ichabod was pleased that she'd be spared the small town history and gossip. He'd only been here a few days, but he already dreaded to think of what Miss Kitty might want. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Regrettably, Miss Jane, I do know her. You may send her up."

Jane disconnected and Ichabod tided away his paperwork and tried to mentally prepare for the older woman's visit. What she wanted, he had no idea.

He heard the creak of her footfalls on the floor moments before she appeared in his doorway. 

He stood to greet her, as was proper, although he felt like slamming the door in her face. He was, whatever happened, first and foremost, a gentleman. And gentlemen had to bite their tongues sometimes.

"Good afternoon, Miss Kitty."

She wore pearls and an emerald green sweater twinset. She looked so incongruous standing in his door, when he was accustomed to seeing students there, in their standard Converse, jeans and slogan t-shirts.

"Professor Crane. I've come to give you some good news."

What news she could have that could possibly a) be good, or b) he could want, he had no idea. However, he kept the polite smile pasted on his face. "Oh?"

He didn't offer her his visitor's chair. Gentlemen's manners had their limits, after all.

"My grand-daughter has been offered a position at the college."

"Congratulations." Ichabod felt dread creeping up on him slowly, but he swallowed it down. 

"As the Literature Teaching Assistant. She is a very capable young woman," Miss Kitty pressed on.

The cloying scent of her lily of the valley perfume was beginning to fill the room, and Ichabod resisted the urge to throw open the window. "I'm sure."

"I hope that you two will become firm friends," she continued.

Ichabod searched her face. She couldn't possibly mean-

"Zoe has a keen interest in history, and I know that as you've just moved here, you'll need to.... put down roots."

She looked completely serious. Ichabod bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing. Or cursing. He had a few choice curse words for later.

"Forgive me, Miss Kitty, but I - I have laboured under the impression that, after my lecture, you feelings towards me were less than friendly."

She waved one wrinkled hand. "I understand that you did that for the Mills sisters. But I came to tell you, they're not what you think. Their family is... well, her mother..."

Ichabod decided to best her at her own game. He already knew everything he needed to know about Abigail Mills and her sister, and their Aunt. They had welcomed him into their home, offered him food. And Abbie had  _trusted_ him. He would not squander it.

"I know about her family," he interrupted. "And I am not a man who judges others on their families' past transgressions. I find it grossly unfair, and further to that, of the highest tedium, and I refuse to be party to it."

Miss Kitty's mouth opened and closed,  but nothing came out.

"Thank you for the information on your grand-daughter. I feel sure we shall enjoy a fruitful working relationship. Unless there is anything else, I bid you good day."

He gently steered her out of his office and closed the door behind her with a satisfying click. Some time later, he heard the tap of her walking stick as she departed down the hall. He folded his arms on his desk, rested his head on them, and sighed, long and loud.

* * * 

 

Classical music filled Ichabod's kitchen as he prepared his signature dish for Miss Mills, the Bedfordshire Clanger. A combination of pastry, meat, and fruit (each at one end) it had always been a hit with his colleagues in Oxford. How an American would react to it, he had no idea.

But Miss Mills had a wicked sense of humour, he could tell, and would likely take it in her stride. 

He tamped down his excitement at seeing her again after  _that_ kiss outside their bakery. Her brown eyes, eyes he'd gladly submerge himself in, never to surface. Her soft voice. Her engaging laugh. And most, her kindness.

To her Aunt, her sister. And to the people in this town who didn't deserve her sweet nature.

He set out plates, silently bemoaning the fact that he didn't have a nicer tablecloth than the spotty PVC one his mother had packed him off to America with ("in case you have dinner guests, you'll need something wipe clean, it's easier"). He dug out some candles from the house's old pantry and lit them up, just as Elgar's Cello Concerto reached its romantic crescendo. 

When the doorbell rang, he still wore his apron. As he made his way to the front of the house, he looked behind him. The dining room looked warm. Inviting. The house was filling with the scent of cooking food. A decanter sat on the table, full of red wine.

For the first time since he'd stepped inside the building, it felt like not merely a house, but perhaps.... a home.

He opened the door, and Abbie stood on the other side, flowers in her arms, wearing a dress the colour of the wine he had just poured, a smile playing on her lips.

"Good evening," he greeted her, unable to stop drinking her in with his eyes. If he was a thirsty man, then she was a long, tall glass of ice cold water.

"Good evening," she grinned. "I do like a dude in a pinny."

Belatedly he realised that he still wore the apron. "I - oh, yes," he huffed, embarrassed, but glowing inside, pleased with her praise.

He opened the door wider and beckoned her inside.


	15. Table for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner, and a little kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry - it's been aaaagggggeeessss! I've had some (good) personal news and had friends over. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

If someone had told Abbie a few weeks ago that she'd be having a romantic dinner with a quirky Englishman, at a table set with candles on a spotty PVC tablecloth, and mismatched dinnerware, she might have laughed.

But as she stepped inside his little house, and followed him down the hall to the dining room, everything looked perfect.

The table set charmingly with two places and a bread plate in the middle, the round cob loaf cut into temptingly thick slices. A pat of butter sat next to it on a slightly chipped dish. The candles were mismatched too, but somehow that added to the charm.

"I do feel it's a bit of a mishmash," he was saying as he untied the apron. "I didn't have a lot coming here, so there's a lot that the previous owner left, and as a result, well..."

She cut him off by placing the flowers gently in his arms. Forget me nots. Because she hoped he never would. "It's perfect."

"And so are these. Thank you." He busied himself disappearing down into the kitchen, presumably to get a vase. As he did, she took in the room. It was pretty bare, she thought with a smile.

The dining table sat in the centre of the room, on plain wooden floors. Although obviously old, they had recently been sanded, and gleamed. The walls were painted a tired light green-grey, but judging by the neat row of paint tins and, brushes and decorating gubbins she had seen lined up in the hallway, the house wouldn't look tired for long. 

A huge french-style glass patio door dominated the right side of the room, able to slide open to allow access into the garden. It, too, needed attention - the flower bed was a little ragged, but the stone barbecue area looked solid, and with a bit of care, it would be a great space to relax.

Maybe together?

She scrubbed a hand over her face. She was getting ahead of herself. But with this man, her usual defences didn't seem to stand a chance.

"Here we are. These don't do your flowers justice, but it will suffice." He arrived back in the room, a slim white vase in his hands, with the cheerful small blue blooms spraying from the top. He placed it at one end of the table. "Perhaps a drink? Wine?"

"Wine would be great."

"Please, sit." He gestured to the chairs at the table, and she pulled one out and sat. The scrollwork on the back of the chairs were intricate.

The scent of roasted meat and something sweet drifted to the table from the kitchen and Abbie's stomach grumbled. Ichabod came to the table with two glasses, and gently set one down before her, and poured them each half a glass from the full decanter, setting it down by the bread. He lifted the glass. "Saluti."

Charmed, helplessly, she lifted her own glass and clinked it against his. They both drank briefly, and then he set his glass back down. "I'd better go and fetch our supper. It's something of a British speciality.... Bedfordshire Clanger. My colleagues in Oxford seemed to like it. I can only hope that on this occasion I haven't erred and made it an abomination."

Once more charmed by his sweet awkwardness, she sat back and enjoyed the classical music as he saw to the dishes.

He brought in a large plate of vegetables, roasted,  and then a larger silver platter carrying the roasted dish. It looked a little like an apple strudel. 

"So. Tell me about this bad boy."

He grinned self-consciously. "Slow-cooked pork at one end and apple and caramel sauce at the other. It's... a bit of an oddity."

"Let's dig in."

He served her, and then himself. Just as she was about to lift her fork and eat, Abbie noticed that Ichabod was paying attention to her and not his food.

"Are you okay?"

"Sorry." He shook his head very slightly as if to clear it. "I just cannot quite believe that you are here. With me."

She lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Where else would I be?"

"Perhaps with a more deserving man than I," he said softly.

The food could wait. Abbie needed to sort out this.. situation first. She pushed back from the table and rounded it, then turned him slightly to face her. "Quite frankly. I can't think of anymore  _more_ deserving," she emphasized. "First the lecture thing. Then you talked me up to my Aunt - I mean sure, she's my Aunt, she does think I'm great," she deadpanned. "But in some ways, you've done more for me in a few weeks than some people in this town have in years."

"Then those people are fools."

"On that, we can agree." She dipped her head and kissed him, very softly. He tasted of roasted meat, red wine, and mint, and it was intoxicating. Her breath hitched when his tongue tenatively touched hers, and his arms came up around his waist, holding her tightly. They stood that way for some minutes, the kisses growing deeper. Abbie's hands tunnelling into his lion's-mane hair. They drank each other in until, with regret, Abbie drew back. "We'd better eat this delicious meal you've made."

She waited for him to say something to the contrary, but he didn't. A proper gentleman, she guessed, with a smile. However, she did notice that he took a few long breaths before he released her.

The Bedfordshire Clanger was, in the end, a taste sensation. Abbie didn't miss Ichabod's expression of relief when he took a bit and deemed it satisfactory. The vegetables were flavourful and soft, the bread warm, butter melting when spread on a slice.

After they ate the juicy pork half of the Clanger, Abbie offered to do the dishes, but he waved her offer away with a smile of thanks.

"Gonna give me the grand tour of your new digs?" she teased.

He led her into the lounge. The Chesterfield sofa stood against the near wall, facing the crumbling hearth, with the new painted mantlepiece stacked in front of it. A pile of black tiles, some of them engraved with a fleur de llys style pattern, were propped on the right hand wall.

"It will be.... better than this," he reassured her. "Eventually."

"What did I say before? You've been here five minutes," she teased. "Rome wasn't built in a day."

"So I'm learning."

He then led her into the kitchen, and out the back door into the garden. The sun shone down, only just beginning its slow descent for the night, a warm breeze drifting through the air. 

"This is great place you've got."

"I am immensely pleased that you like it. It would fill me with joy if you would visit.... often," he finished, and she wondered if she had imagined the hint of shyness in his tone.

"How often?"

"As often as you'd like. More, perhaps."

She pulled him down by the lapels of his smart button-down shirt and they kissed as the sun disappeared into the horizon by small increments. The breeze played with the ends of Abbie's hair. The air smelled of cut grass and promise.

"What's for dessert?" she whispered against his mouth. 

"The delights of the sweet half of the Clanger," he deadpanned. "And.... Perhaps afterwards, something equally quintessentially British - strawberries and cream."

She led him back into the kitchen, already thinking about other places she could put the cream. She didn't necessarily need to eat it from the bowl.


	16. Heat and Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pre-naughty times interval, with whiskey.

As they fed each other alternating strawberries with bites of the sweet end of the pastry confection Ichabod had prepared, Abbie tried to tamp down her giddiness. The little mice of desire, want, need and anxiety, skittered down her spine together, a helpless helter skelter of sensation.

She had no choice - and didn't want to anything else - but to ride it out.

The sun still peeked over the horizon as they sat together on the grass of his small garden. The fences gave them some privacy as they sat cross legged together. The soft, dry blades of grass tickled Abbie's bare calves.

Flavour exploded on her tongue as Ichabod slid a strawberry half between her lips.

"It's so sweet."

"I've often thought that strawberries are my favourite of all the fruits."

She swirled a strawberry in the pile of whipped cream and fed it to him in turn, accidentally swiping a little of the cream in his beard. "Oops." She lifted her hand to get it, then changed her mind and leaned in, kissing him, tasting the fruit and cream on his lips, then sliding her open mouth down to lick the small amount of cream off his face. He tasted of strawberries and smelled slightly of mint. The heady combination dominated her senses.

When he did nothing, she continued her lazy exploration of his features with her lips. She dropped kisses along his jaw, on his cheekbones - cliff sharp - kissed his eyes closed. Finally, when she kissed the pulse point at his neck, she felt his hands at her waist, firm but gentle.

"Abbie."

She set aside her bowl of strawberries and slid her hands up the soft fabric of the dove-grey button down he wore. He felt solid and warm underneath, and she thought:  _yes._   _I want this._

"I want you to know that I.. expect nothing."

A smile tugged at her lips. "I know you do. And you have no idea that that makes giving you  _everything_ so easy." She kissed him again, and this time he pulled her close, uncrossing his legs so she could wiggle between them, her knees touching the insides of his thighs. Heat sparked up her legs, into her centre, where a fiery ache began.

They kissed for moments that bled together as the sun made its slow, graceful descent below the horizon, lighting everything in gold briefly. Their tongues tangled; breaths hitched. When the first breeze of late evening stole over them, Ichabod squeezed a gentle hand on Abbie's shoulder. "Time to retire inside, perhaps. For coffee?"

She licked her lips. "I had something stronger in mind," she grinned at him, and saw a muscle jump in his cheek. Oh, she'd very much enjoy this proper Brit coming undone at her hands. Yeah, she would.

They laughed at each other as, back in the kitchen, Ichabod poured them each a finger of Famous Grouse whiskey. Abbie downed it, relishing the fire that tracked down her throat and into her stomach.

For the longest time, she had held back from everything, afraid of the town, fearing others' opinions. 

Now Ichabod had come into her life, and had fast joined the circle of people she felt safe with. People she could truly be  _herself_ with. And she wouldn't waste another minute of that worrying about what anyone else would say or think, or do.

Screw 'em.

She placed her empty glass on the counter and stepped in between his slightly parted legs. He smiled down at her, arching an eyebrow.

"And just what are you about?"

She smiled. "I believe I am, as we say in these parts, "getting all up in your business.""

"And I believe I'm going to let you." He finished his own drink, and wrapped his arms around her, sliding his hands up and down her back. Awareness, desire, and heady need shot through her veins, a better drug than any of the market.  He kissed his way down her neck, and she arched to give him better access, everything inside her thrilling at the pleasant roughness of his beard on her skin.

"Ichabod," she managed to say through the haze of his kisses.

"Mmmm."

"I think we should continue this.... upstairs."

He paused mid-kiss. They stood close enough that she felt his erection jerk reflexively against her stomach, and a rush of wet warmth made her internal muscles clench, hard.

"You're sure?"

"Oh, yeah." She grabbed his lapels and kissed him hard, slightly biting his lip to show him just how sure she was. "Bring the leftover cream."

And she danced out of the room on light feet, feeling like a bottle of the finest champagne - light, bubbly, and, like the night - full of heat and promise. There was no question about whether he would follow. Only of what they would do together when he caught up.


	17. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod opens up about his past.

Ichabod paused at the foot of the stairs. Twin needs tugged him in opposing directions. He should follow. But he was keenly aware that he had something to tell the beautiful woman who'd kicked up a storm in his life - and his heart.

He followed her with half a heavy heart.

The picture she made in his bedroom made his pulse jerk up. Other things paid attention, too.

She sat on the edge of his neatly made double bed, one leg tucked under her, the other hanging down the edge of the bed, her toes not quite reaching the floor. The large skirt of her dress was spread out, mirroring the petals of a flower spread for the tasting of a bee.

And boy, did he want a taste.

The late gold light of the deepening evening poured in through the open curtains, kissing her hair and the sweet curve of her cheek in the sky's last gasp of lustre before the moon rose. She looked like an angel, or a Goddess in a classical painting. His breath hitched in his chest.

"Abbie."

A slight frown furrowed the skin between her eyebrows. "You don't look like a man who remembered the leftover cream."

He shoved a hand through the tumbled mass of his hair. The chain around his neck burned like a brand.  _Tell her._ "There are... some things I should say."

She started to rise. "If this is happening too fast-"

"No. No, it's exactly right. I simply allowed myself to be swept away by the expanse of your beauty." He'd intended to stay in a safe space, by the door, but now he couldn't resist crossing the room to her, cupping her cheek in his palm. Her face was warm against his palm, her skin the softest of silks. "I should have been honest with you."

She didn't withdraw from his touch, but turned concerned eyes on his own visage. "Perhaps you'd better sit down."

He released her and sat a few feet away on the bed, but she grabbed his hand and laced their fingers.

"I.... confess, I am unsure where to begin," he started, unsteady.

"Start from the beginning."

Her dark eyes were so deep, soft. Soothing. He didn't read any judgement or fear in them. Just.. patience. It cracked at his heart, her goodness. Her innate kindness.

"I had a wife."

He waited for the flare of her shock in her face. Her eyebrows lifted slightly, but she said nothing, simply waited for him to continue his narrative.

"Her name was Katrina. We met through a mutual friend, Bram. She was.... I was captivated by her, and we fell in love. We were quite young, and for a while I believed that we shared the same ideals, the same wants for the future. We married quickly, perhaps in hindsight, too quickly, and we argued more than I wanted to admit. Our relationship was... fiery. We had agreed a few times to a sort of annulment, but then one of of would convince the other to try again. We were on our way to finally file for the beginning of divorce proceedings when..." He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "When the accident happened."

Abbie squeezed his hand, but stayed quiet. 

"It was an icy day. I was driving perhaps slower than I should have been; I was wary of both the physical road and the metaphorical one we had set a course towards. Perhaps I wanted more time with her. Perhaps... I was going to try and drag our marriage from the wreckage it had already become. I'm terribly stubborn," he added ruefully. "I can never know. The lorry hit her side of the car. I'm told she was dead instantly, but-" he heard his voice crack on the last word, and swallowed, forcing himself to look straight ahead at the faded, replica William Morris tapestry hanging there, something his parents had passed on to him. 

Silence bounced around the room, and unwelcome third party. Along with the ghost of his wife. He had only himself to blame, Ichabod thought, miserable. He'd invited her in, after all. What a way to kill the mood. But he had to say something. If he wanted a relationship with the delectable Miss Mills, secrets were not the way to begin one, and refused to keep things from her.

He expected her to get up, and walk away. To ask him how he could be so careless. To tell him how he'd killed his wife.

"It's not your fault," she whispered.

He turned to her, lost for words.

"You carry her around with you, think that because you were driving that if you weren't, she'd still be alive. I don't think that's true."

"You can't know," he muttered, stunned at what she'd said.

"No, you're right. I can't. I wasn't there. But what would you have done differently? Taken a different route? It was probably icy everywhere. Not have gone to the appointment? Well, at the time, you both wanted it, didn't you? We can't change the past, Ichabod. All we can do is make the best decisions we're capable of at the time. And we shouldn't blame ourselves for our own actions. Did you ever stop to think that it was the truck driver at fault and _not_ you? You said you were driving slowly because of the ice. Does that sound like the actions of a man who wanted to kill his wife?"

He absorbed her words for the longest time. And it seemed that the tight fist of the redhead he'd been clinging to for so long loosened, just a little. He didn't feel her looking over his shoulder so much. Not now.

"She didn't deserve to die that way," he said softly.

Abbie touched his face with her free hand. "No, she didn't. But guess what? You don't deserve to live this way, either. Do you think she would want you to carry her around like this?"

He thought of Katrina.  _Really_ thought about her. Her vibrance, her quick temper, her love of life, her verve. If she'd lived, they would have eventually parted amicably, maybe they'd have been friends. She would have waltzed into someone else's life and she would have snapped at him to live his to the full. She probably would have _hated_ the funeral he'd arranged for her, he thought dimly. All black and solemn silence. A release of sky lanterns would have suited the fire of her large personality far better.

But then, hindsight was forever 20/20, wasn't it?

"I don't think she would," he said slowly. With those words, something inside him loosened. Had he really been going about his life with this horrid tightness in his stomach, all this time?

"I want you to know," Abbie said, with equal slowness, "I don't expect you to suddenly be fine after this short talk. But I'm so, so glad you told me. That you opened up to me." She stroked his jaw, running her fingers through his short beard. "I thought you had a story behind those baby blues."

He turned his face and pressed a kiss into her palm. "You, Abigail Mills, are a treasure unlike any discovered to date. And the first woman who has made me think about - and consequently finish - this."

And he released her hand and fished the end of the chain from under his shirt. Gently he unclasped the ends and pooled the chain, and the thin gold band it held, into his palm. "I believe it is long past time that she and I... parted ways."

He stood briefly and piled the chain and the band on the wide windowsill. He would find a keepsake box for it later.

For now, he knelt by Abbie and looked up into her bottomless, chocolate brown eyes. "I will never be sorry that I shared this with you. However, to say that tonight has not ended as I planned would be a severe understatement."

She smiled.

"Will you allow me to make it up to you? With a proper outing? Perhaps in the next town? You could choose a restaurant you've been wanting to try. We could go anywhere you wish. The moon if the whim takes you. I will begin calculations for the rocket this very night."

She bit her lip, and he found himself following the sweet, plump curve of the flesh there. He knew how decadent she tasted. Knew already he'd never get enough, even if he kissed her every day for the rest of his natural life.

"I only have one question."

His heart missed a beat, half in horror, half in anticipation.

"Will you wear the grey tweed coat? The one you were wearing when we first met. With the open-necked white shirt..."

Relief rushed out of him on a low exhalation. "My dear. I would wear anything you wished if it would earn me another smile." Thrilled, he swept her off her feet and slowly turned her around, the skirt of her dress tuliping gracefully as they circled. Laughing, Abbie lifted her face for his kiss, and he obliged her, capturing her mouth with his as the moon assumed its steady climb into the star-spattered darkness of the night sky.

And Ichabod thought that his life had never been more full of promise than this perfect, perfect moment.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're sticking with this, I'm really grateful. The amount of love and support for this fic has bowled me over.
> 
> Brief PSA: My indie publisher is closing due to ill health. I'm really sad, and I'm trying to find another, but in the meantime my books may not be available for a long time if again!! So, if you ever fancied reading one, the time is now.
> 
> http://tinyurl.com/gtrskzj


	18. A New Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with the new TA, and date night.

The following week, Ichabod sat in his office grading papers and preparing for the final lecture of the semester. The late morning sunlight streamed in through the open window, fluttering the edges of pages held down by a paperweight. He had leftover pasta from Smokey Joe’s for lunch, and best of all, he had a date this evening with Abigail – dinner and a movie in the next town over.

He’d pressed his grey tweed jacket as requested.

Prior to that, though, he had a – strictly work themed – coffee appointment with the new Literature TA, Zoe Corinth. Miss Kitty’s relation. However, Ichabod planned to reserve judgement on Zoe. It was hardly her fault that her grandmother was dead set on meddling in the affairs of everyone in the town. He’d meet her without prejudice and see what transpired.

The lecture, centred on the political writings of Samuel Adams, lasted three quarters of an hour. Ichabod loved his students already, but even he could see that the most dedicated pupils’ gazes were fixed outside, where the sun beat down. Where ice cream trucks played their jingling siren songs, promising long moments of sugary happiness.

He ended the lecture early, and was rewarded with a cheer. On their way past, several students commented that they were looking forward to seeing him with the new term in the fall. He left the lecture hall with a lighter heart, although his arms were full of papers.

He met Miss Corinth in the student café. Glass-walled on three sides, it was mostly empty, many of the students either having vacated for home, or lazing outside on the grassy areas, chatting, reading, and in most cases, eating ice cream or other foods.

She gave him a jaunty wave as she stood by the coffee station. As he approached, she said: “I recognised you from the staff meeting.”

“Of course.” He offered his hand and she shook it. “Shall we?”

He procured them two coffees, and they sat at a corner table slightly out of the sun’s red hot glare.

“So,” Ichabod began, but Zoe held up  one slim hand.

“Can I go first?”

He nodded his agreement and gestured with his free hand.

Zoe leaned forward. “I’m not entirely sure what my grandmother told you. But I can guess pretty well. But I want to tell you from my _own_ mouth – I’m here to work. Whatever she has said, or will say, I’m not interested in you.  I won this job on my own merits and I intend to work damn hard.”

She leaned back, having said her peace, and sipped her coffee.

Ichabod blinked.

“Are we clear?”

“Oh yes, Miss Corinth. Perfectly clear.”

She smiled then, cracking the serious façade her face had taken on. “Great. I hope we can be friends. It’s just so hard to have a matchmaking grandmother in your family, you know? Every time I see her she asks when she could expect babies. It’s pretty exhausting.”

His heart clenched with sympathy for her. “I can only imagine.”

“I saw what you did on social media, with the costume day,” she began, deftly changing the subject. “You put Witness back on the map. From what my grandmother’s friends say – and there’s a lot of hot air there, believe you me – hardly anyone knows this town exists anymore. And I for one want to keep this job. So, I’ll help you with whatever you need.”

Ichabod smiled. He had a feeling that Miss Corinth was going to be a fantastic ally in the battle to save this town. He pulled a notebook from his jacket. “Perhaps you’d permit me to share some ideas with you…”

\-----

 

He drove his old car – still hadn’t got around to updating it yet, maybe wouldn’t for some time – to Abbie’s house.

When he knocked on the door, wrapped flowers in hand, Aunt Ruby answered it. Her face looked drawn, but her eyes lit up when she lifted her gaze to his.

“Professor Crane,” she grinned. “You hear to pick up my girl for a good time?”

“The best time, one would hope,” he said solemnly, and proferred the flowers. “For you.”

She eyed the tulips and then him. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Your mama raised you right.” She took the blooms from him. “If I was thirty years younger…”

“I would have quite the trouble choosing,” Ichabod answered smoothly. Ruby scoffed, but was pleased by his praise.

Just as her Aunt moved back inside to slide the flowers into a vase, Abbie stopped at the base of the stairs. She wore a full-skirted dress in deep poppy red, the boat neck spanning her delicate collarbone and small shoulders. Her flat red sandals clicked gently on the floor.

“Hi.”

He was momentarily struck speechless by her natural beauty; her large doe-brown eyes, her dusky skin, so soft in the evening sunlight. The scent of roses and mint wove around her as she stood before him, Venus in the presence of mortals.

“Good evening,” he finally managed to choke out.

Behind them, Ruby swallowed back a delighted laugh and closed the door to the kitchen, leaving them alone in the hallway.

“You like my dress, then.”

“Oh, yes. Without doubt.”

She reached up and stroked a hand down the lapel of his tweed jacket. “You wore it.”

He cupped her cheek and lowered his voice. “I can deny you nothing, Miss Mills. _Abbie._ ” He dropped his hand. “We had best get going. I am determined to treat you to a proper outing, and if I keep looking at you in that dress, I will drive nowhere save to my house.”

With a coy smile, Abbie took a small white jacket from a hook by the door. “There’ll be time for that later – right?”

“Without doubt,” he repeated.

They called goodbye to Aunt Ruby, and then hurried down the steps to the car. Ichabod held the door open for her, glancing at his watch. He’d made reservations and they would just about make it. His heart fluttered at the thought of spending the entire evening with Abbie. And maybe later, the entire night.

He started the engine and they drove away.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for reading!


	19. Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doubts rear their ugly heads over dinner, but all is not lost.

He drove them to the nearby metropolis of Atlanta, and parked on the street near a French bistro. When she went to open her side of the door, he stayed her hand gently. “Allow me.” He pocketed the car keys and walked over to her side, opening the door for her.

Abbie slid out, her shoes clicking gently on the sidewalk. “You don’t have to do this.”

One side of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile that charmed her. “And what if _this_ is exactly what I’d like to do?” He closed the door behind her and locked the car.

Abbie had to admit that his gentlemanly behaviour was far from a trial. In fact it was immensely enjoyable. She’d been excited upon hearing that he planned to take her for a “proper” date – out of town, away from anyone with a judgemental gaze.

He offered her his tweed-jacket clad arm. “Shall we?”

Feeling free, she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow as they walked to the bistro. Scents of butter, garlic and freshly baked bread wound through the warm air. Ichabod held open the door for her and gave his name to the server at the front of house.

They were led through the wooden-floored, high-ceilinged restaurant. On either side of the aisle, couples, families and friends sat at round tables, eating food that looked mouth-watering, talking, laughing, gesturing wildly. In the background, jaunty violin music played low over hidden speakers.

The server gestured for them to sit and Ichabod moved to pull out Abbie’s chair.

Would it always be like this? She wondered, hating the self-sabotage. Would he ever be so accommodating? So kind, so thoughtful? Or as their relationship progressed would they both stop bothering?

Ichabod sat and accepted the menus from the server, thanking the younger man. He took Abbie’s hand. “Your thoughts are all but reaching me from here. What’s bothering you?”

Abbie looked down at their joined hands, his skin pale, fingers long and elegant. She swallowed, feeling like an idiot for ruining the moment. Couldn’t she just enjoy this?

“I just feel like it’s a bit too good to be true,” she said at length. “You. This.”

A gentle smile tipped up his mouth. “If I told you I was feeling a similar way, would that reassure you? To me, _you_ are too good to be true. A source of pure goodness in a town that could easily have broken you.”

A waiter brought them a bread basket and a pat of butter. Ichabod released her hand and Abbie helped herself to a slice of the warm, soft bread, and slowly spread butter over it.

“As you learned recently,” Ichabod began in a low voice, “I am far from without my flaws.”

She lifted her gaze to his. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know you didn’t.” He took a piece of bread for himself.

“It’s just been a long time since I had… anything like this. And I know it hasn’t been long, but I want it to be like this, well… forever.” She smiled self-consciously, feeling guilty. “Isn’t that selfish?”

“ _Abbie._ Of course it isn’t.”

The waiter ghosted by and Ichabod made eye contact, signalling the man over and ordering a half carafe of red wine.

She opened her menu, eyeing him over the top of it as he buttered his bread, thinking how quickly he had become established in her life. What a gaping hole he’d leave if he departed from Witness tomorrow. He wouldn’t, she didn’t think. He seemed the sort of man to see something through to the end, no matter what. Didn’t seem to make decisions lightly. And she knew he wouldn’t have decided to start seeing her on a whim.

She’d had some hellish experiences with other men, but..

 _He isn’t other men,_  she reasoned. In fact, she’d never met anyone quite like Ichabod Crane.

“This is no passing fancy for me, Abbie,” he murmured, probably having felt her gaze on him as she’d pretended to choose a dish. “I mean to stay in this town, and I’d like to spend my free time with you. If you’ll allow it.”

She looked into his dark blue eyes, the shade of the pacific ocean on a sunny day, and thought that she might allow him just about anything.

“Of course I will,” she replied, amazed. “After everything you’ve done-”

“I didn’t do those things to gain anything from you.” He paused as the waiter appeared by their table again.

Abbie ordered rosemary-baked lamb and Ichabod opted for confit duck. The waiter poured their wine.

“I did them because they were the right thing,” he continued. “Regardless of whether your affection for me would be returned. I wouldn’t want a single thing from you out of _gratitude._ Only what you _want._ ”

Abbie was getting a pretty damn good idea of what she wanted. And it wasn’t to go sit in a movie theatre for two hours after dinner.

It was to carry on where they’d left off, the night he’d cooked for her, fed her strawberries as the sun was setting. The night she’d known that she teetered on the sharp cliff of falling in _love_. And that was where the fear stemmed from.

Because hope might have wings, but fear, fear had teeth. And she knew from experience, whose bite hurt the most, whose teeth sank the deepest.

But there was not a single other thing the man opposite her could do to reassure her further. _She_ had to take this leap. She’d been more than willing that night, the wine and whiskey fuelling her bravado. Tonight she’d have to stump up the bravado by herself. But she didn’t want to go another night without feeling him touch her. Taste her. Lie beside and below her.

“Abbie?” Ichabod asked, and she was suddenly aware that she’d gone a good few minutes without speaking. “Are you well?”

She ran her foot up his leg, under the table. “How do you feel about skipping the movie? And maybe…. A hotel?”

 --------

 

Ichabod opened the hotel door with one hand. With the other, he held Abbie tight to him. Their tongues tangled as he fumbled with the door handle, finally gaining purchase with the little plastic swipe card. They half stumbled, half fell into the room, and Abbie shut the door behind them with her foot.

Outside, the weather had turned to rain. It pelted the wide hotel window, letting only darkness and the soft glow of street lamps, several storeys down, into the room.

“Just a moment.” Ichabod reluctantly broke the kiss to slide the key card into the power socket. Soft lighting filled the room from a standing lamp, and the two small lights affixed to the headboard of the large, inviting bed.

When he turned, Abbie stood by the bed, haloed by the soft headboard lighting. The red fabric of her dress made her look decadent – a sweet treat wrapped in the most luxurious of coverings. He moved towards her and she opened her arms.

“You are sure.”

She tugged at his hair, pulling him down for a kiss. “Don’t tell me you’re going to put this off again with _talking,_ ” she teased.

His heart lurched at the look in her eyes – hot, determined. “I will never speak again if it means I will have you tonight.”

She kissed him in silent response, and Ichabod, normally verbose at all times, correctly guessed that the speaking portion of the evening was over.

When she had suggested that they skip the film, he’d had to all but sit on his hands to keep from grabbing her there and then and counter-suggesting that they make out like teenagers on the back seat of his car. But Abbie deserved so much more than that.

The hotel wasn’t as upmarket as he would have liked, but on a busy summer evening they hadn’t had much choice. He would make up for that in the future, he promised himself.

Her small hands slid under his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. It fell to the carpeted floor with barely a whisper, unnoticed. His breath hitched as she started on the buttons of his smart white dress shirt, leaning up on tiptoes to press a kiss to the triangle of chest left bare. When she drew her tongue over his skin, his hands clenched on her waist. “I’ve always wondered,” she whispered, “just how you tasted there.”

“Tonight, and for all the nights hence, you may taste me… wherever you wish,” he managed to choke out, amazed that he had spoken coherently.

She glanced up at him, and her expression was nothing short of wicked. “Oh, and I will.”

Giving him no time to recover from that statement, she made short work of the rest of the small buttons and pushed his shirt down his arms. It joined his jacket on the floor and she spread her hands over his chest, a small, pleased smile playing on her mouth.

She pressed a few open-mouthed kisses to his chest as he tried to stay still, allowing her free reign. His stomach muscles jumped when she started on his belt buckle.

“We can do slow later,” she told him as she slid the leather through his jean hoops. “Now I just want…. This.”

Words dried up on his tongue at the sight and feel of her small hands on the fly of his jeans. He could only watch, helplessly, and feel.

Abbie released the three small buttons holding his jeans together. With a searing look, she grasped the sides of his jeans and moved them down his hips. The fabric around his thighs left him trapped and she knew it, taking her time tracing the hard length of him through his plain black underwear.

As she knelt down, that sensual, smug smile playing around her lips, he grasped her shoulders, running one hand through her hair. “ _Abbie._ You are aware that you don’t have to-”

She scoffed. “I know I don’t _have to._ You expect nothing, remember? Which just makes this better.”

He could only manage a strangled sound and hope he didn’t pull her hair too much as she parted the opening in his boxers and wrapped her small hand around him, drawing him out for her exploration. He let his head fall back as she stroked him painstakingly slowly, each brush of her fingers sweet torture – both too much and not enough.

And then she used her tongue, and he saw stars behind his closed lids. Her mouth was perfectly wet and hot, and he clamped a warning hand on her shoulder, his fingers clenching. Resisting the overwhelming urge to thrust used up every iota of his concentration. If she didn't stop- _“Abbie.”_

She continued for another hot second, the tip of her tongue teasing a particularly sensitive spot, before releasing him.

He sucked in a ragged breath. “I was fearing that this might be over before we had begun.”

Abbie stood back up, looping her arms around his neck. “Well. We do have all night.”

This woman was going to be the death of him, Ichabod thought as he eagerly undid the buttons on the back of her red dress, exposing the soft skin of her back.

He was willing to risk it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of time! But this sex scene will continue in the next chapter. Thanks for reading!


	20. In Good Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sexy times conclude.

Abbie held her breath as he reached the last button on the dress. Loosened, the fabric slid to the carpet with a small sigh of sound, leaving her before him in a lacy red bra and red panties. She’d thought of him as she’d chosen them. She had never owned red underwear before. It had seemed appropriate. The underwear made her feel like a siren; a vixen.

 _He_ made her feel like a siren and a vixen.

“Goddess in human form,” he breathed, and for a moment, she felt as if they were on a higher, magical plane, away from this world, instead of standing in a hotel room whilst Atlanta whizzed by outside.

She thought he would go straight for her bra, or her panties, but he did not. She should have known by now that he wasn’t other men. Instead he cupped her face, lavishing kisses on her cheeks, her closed eyelids, the corners of her mouth, her chin, the tip of her nose. Only when he’d explored he face and neck thoroughly did he lift his hands to cup the weight of her breasts, rubbing his thumbs over nipples already hard through the blood red lace. “To me, you are perfect.”

The quiet admission had everything in her melting, and she leaned into him, absorbing his solid warmth. He continued to stroke her gently until she keened against his chest, drinking in the scent of him. Only then did he unclasp the fastenings of her bra, letting it drop down her arms and to the floor. Abbie glanced down at the discarded clothes on the carpet, feeling pretty naughty – and _very_ good about it.

Ichabod made short work of his shoes, socks and jeans before kneeling before her. His blue eyes searched her face before he dropped reverent kisses on the swells of her bare breasts, before stroking his tongue over one nipple and then the other. She arched into his mouth, her fingers curling into his thick hair of their own volition. She murmured his name, only realising afterwards that it had escaped her lips.

He paused in his ministrations to look up at her. “I would have you say my name just like that when I’m inside you.”

His words sent a dark thrill shooting straight through her, desire pooling hot and sudden between her legs. She pressed her thighs together, her heart pounding. He cupped her through the thin barrier of red lace, and she near jumped at his touch, at the pads of his fingers tracing the wet seam of her entrance through the fabric.

“Take them off,” she murmured, hearing the steel under the soft command.

He arched a brow, appearing to have heard it to. “Yes, ma’am.”

He gently slid the lace down her legs, pausing to unbuckle her sandals, until she stood clad in nothing but the red paint on her toenails. He ran his hands, long fingers, broad palms, up and down her calves once. “She’s all States and Princes, I. Nothing else is. John Donne,” he explained. “From one of his love poems.”

Abbie felt her blush all the way to her feet. So this was what it felt like to be _treasured._ Truly valued. Embarrassment made her want to hurry, and she grasped his shoulders and pulled him to her. “I’m ready to say your name again. The way you like it.”

He captured her mouth in a hard, passionate kiss, then swept her up in his arms and carried her the short distance to the bed, laying her on the snowy white coverlet. He made short work of finding a condom in his jeans pocket and placed it on the pillow next to her.

She reached for it, but he gently stayed her hand. “In good time.”

Impatient, she arched her hips. “I’m ready.”

“But I am not.” He stretched out beside her, one hand sliding down her body, parting her legs. When his fingers began to stroke her in lazy circles, she gasped with the intense, sudden spike of pleasure.

His lips quirked. “Do you wish me to continue?”

“Smug aren’t you,” she ground out as he hit a sensitive spot. The last syllable of the second word was swallowed when she sighed in pleasure. He continued to circle on that small, tight bud at her centre until her hips rose again and again, and she splintered into a million shards of bliss.

Afterwards, she barely remembered him rolling the condom on, and positioning himself above her. She came to when he nudged at her entrance, his blue gaze searching hers. He was going to ask her again if it was what she wanted, Abbie thought, ever the gentleman. She didn’t want him to ask. She wanted him to _take._ So she wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled, and in a hot second  he was seated deep inside her.

They both groaned.

“Abbie.” Ichabod lifted a hand to stroke an errant lock of hair back from her face. His mouth was a solemn line, and she watched a muscle tick in his cheek.

“You don’t have to wait,” she reassured him.

The sharp bite of pleasure zinged through her as he pulled out and thrust in again, and then set a punishing rhythm, sinking in deeper each time. Abbie encouraged him, her legs a vice around his narrow hips as their bodies moved together. She shuddered with bliss as he dropped kisses down her neck, using his teeth once. It would leave a mark, and the thought of him marking her as his made her orgasm break over her, heady, without warning. She gasped his name.

“Abbie.” Ichabod ground it out as he reached the edge just after her, his body coiling tightly before his own climax seized him.

Afterwards, they lay curled together as the streetlamps from below glowed softly in the dark of the night.

“That was worth the wait,” Abbie said with a smile, nuzzling into Ichabod’s shoulder.

He stroked her arm idly. “Glad to be of service. I find that I am… utterly spellbound by you, Abigail Mills.”

She yawned happily, stretching languidly as sleep stole over her by degrees. Her heart clenched as he kissed the top of her head, and she never wanted to leave the comfort of his embrace. Never wanted the world to intervene, although she knew that it would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm just stoked & humbled by all the love for this fic.


	21. When a Plan Comes Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod and Zoe discuss the plans to resurrect the History Society parade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for all my readers - thank you!!! - but especially for Erika whose enthusiasm for a Second Chances update spurred me on.

“This is neat.” Grinning, Zoe held up a period dress, complete with perfectly recreated bodice and puffed sleeves, in front of her. “I’ve read about the festival and the parade, read about it before I moved here. You’re planning to reinstate it, aren’t you?”

Ichabod smiled as he laid out the items of clothing. “I want to put Witness back on the map.”

Zoe tilted her head and he thought, not for the first time, how perceptive she was. Miss Kitty had no idea how smart her granddaughter was – thankfully. He had a feeling that the old lady would only use the knowledge to her own advantage.

“For Abbie?”

His chest constricted. It was his normal state to think of Abbie often, but since their unforgettable, glorious hotel night, he’d frankly been able to think of very little else, save the spread of her hair, fanned on the pillow. Her voice, sighing his name. The wrap of her thighs around him as-

“Yes,” he answered at length. “But not only. For her Aunt, her sister, for myself – and for all the people who already live here and want to continue doing so.”

“It’s a good thing, this,” Zoe confirmed. Then she picked up another item – a very Puritan bonnet – and fit it on to her head. “And it’ll be fun! But, we’ll have to engage the whole History Society.”

Ichabod studied her thoughtfully, a replica musket in his hands. “You think it might prove a challenge?”

“I’m not sure.” Zoe closed the trunk and sat on it with a  quiet thump. “People don’t like change – do they? And I know there’s been a lot of change around here already – I heard about your bodice-ripping lecture by the way, kudos for that-”

“Bodice ripping?”

“Have you never read _Lady Chatterly’s Lover?_ “ she asked incredulously.

“I admit you have a point.”

“Anyway, we’re going to need a plan. We can’t just show up at a meeting with a trunk of costumes and say, hey everyone, let’s put these on and stroll around town just like we used to. It needs to be, resurrect the whole festival, or nothing.”

Ichabod replaced the replica musket and crossed the room to her. “Involve the whole town,” he mused. “Including local businesses. ‘Twould benefit them too, after all…”

“And don’t forget the resistance in the form of Miss Kitty and her cronies.”

He snorted, and she joined in the laughter for a second. But he didn’t once doubt that the twinset-and-pearls brigade would make some formidable enemies.

“I believe I need to make some calls.”

* * *

 

 

That evening, Abbie and Ichabod lay in his bed. The house seemed to come alive with her in it, he thought, bliss winding through him as she slid a leg over both of his, her head pillowed on his shoulder. The sound of late evening birdsong floated through the slightly open bedroom window; the curtains ruffled gently.

“Do you recall,” he began, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “Regaling me with your experience of the History Society Parade?”

“Sure.”

“And what would you say if I confessed that I had something of a plan to resurrect that Parade? In fact, the entire festival?”

Abbie sat up. One strap of her silky fuchsia nightgown slipped down her shoulder, revealing the swell of her breast.

Ichabod forced himself not to get distracted.

“Hell of a task,” she mused, her eyes serious.

“But if I could achieve it?”

“It would be great for the town. Great for everyone. Ruby will be out of her mind with excitement.”

“Please, say nothing to her yet. Until I’ve spoken to the History Society. I’ve little to no idea how my ideas will be received,” he admitted. “But.. I wanted you to know. And I’m hoping that Nothing Bundt Trouble will be involved. With colonial cake recipes and the like.”

She arched a brow, interested. “And what else? Smokey Joes making themed pizza?”

“I see no reason not. I might also recruit some friends to assist. Furthermore, I would be thrilled if you met my friend Bram.”

“Yours and your late wife’s mutual friend,” she replied softly. “If he’s important to you, he’s important to me.”

Ichabod’s heart pinched. She was so giving, this woman. He’d never tire of her – any aspect of her – if he lived to be a hundred. “If the whole town joins in, I see no limit to what we can accomplish together.”

Abbie’s gaze searched his face, and finally she smiled. “Ichabod Crane. You know what, if anyone could achieve this, it’s you. You have more enthusiasm than anyone I’ve ever known, and you don’t seem the type to back down from something you want.”

He slid a hand into her hair, stroking her cheek. “Well, it so happens that once I set my heart on something I want, I can think of little else.”

“Is that right.”

In a smooth motion he rolled her on to her back, covering her with his body. He felt her heart hammering against his, and her excitement only spurred him on. “Perhaps you’d like a demonstration.”

She arched her hips up to meet his, rolled herself against his erection, already at full mast. A cat-with-the-cream smile spread slowly over her face.

“I insist, Professor.”


	22. The Icing on the Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod's friend Bram arrives for a visit and to help with the town reinvigoration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. Our son is only just over 3 weeks old so I've been tapping away at this between baby wrangling!

"You look different," Bram commented as Ichabod turned the key in the lock of his front door. "More... better. Well rested."

 

Ichabod smiled as he pushed the door open to his house. _Home_  was how he'd begun to think of it, he realised, catching the faintest drift of Abbie's favoured perfume in the air. He was home, finally, after all this time. And wasn't it funny that home could sometimes be a person rather than a fixed time or place?

 

"The change did me good."

 

Bram shrugged off his light coat and hung it up on the newly installed hallway hooks. "We all sort of thought you were a bit mad. You know. Taking off to Bumfuck, America, on a wild hair." He frowned. "Well. Not a wild hair. You know."

 

Ichabod met his friend's gaze and touched Bram's shoulder. "It's all right to say her name. Truly."

 

They looked at each other a moment and then Bram caught Ichabod in a hard hug. "I missed you. I should have come before."

 

"You're here now. That's what matters."

 

Ichabod brewed some strong tea and they settled into the front room together. Bram had barely lifted his cup before he said: "So tell me about her."

 

They had been emailling on and off since Ichabod's move. He hadn't given Bram a huge amount of detail - it wasn't a gentleman's place to kiss and tell, of course, but for Ichabod just the mere mention of a woman was unusual enough for the other man to know this was much more than a trifling.

 

Steepling his fingers together, Ichabod regarded his friend thoughtfully. "She is a true beauty," he said finally. "In every possible sense of  the word."

 

Bram absorbed that for a moment, then nodded. "I'm happy for you. Really. And am I to be granted an audience?"

 

"I doubt I could keep her away. But first - whilst you're here, I was hoping you would help me with a project. To revive the town."

 

Sipping his tea again, Bram leaned forward with interest. "Ah yes. The Parade and festival you mentioned in your emails. I'm looking forward to getting my teeth into that."

 

Bram was a tailor by trade. Self taught from a young age, he now worked with a number of well to do shops serving London's Saville Row. Ichabod hoped that his friend would bring some panache and flair to the stuffy and aged outfits he'd uncovered. Many of them needed a good spring clean and more, but Bram had a good eye as well as a steady hand, and Ichabod had seen his talents at work.

 

He had a particular dress in that trunk in mind for Abbie too, but he'd need to bring it up with her first.

 

"But first," Bram added with a quirk of a blond eyebrow, "Tell me about the dirty lectures that apparently have the town with their knickers in a twist. You're going to do one whilst I'm here, aren't you?"

 

"Wouldn't you like to know."

 

****

 

Later that afternoon, Abbie worked alone in the back room of Nothing Bundt Trouble, adding the painstaking finishing touches to a chocolate mousse cake. Ichabod had invited her over to his home that evening for dinner and to meet Bram. A good Southern girl never showed up empty handed, especially when she made a damn good cake.

 

She piped tiny pink fondant rosettes all around the rim of the cake, swearing under her breath when one smudged. She flicked it off and piped it again. A small amount of icing remained in the piping bag when she set it down on the counter and stepped back slightly to admire her work. The three-tier cake looked delectable; easily good enough to grace the shop window. She almost regretted not making two, but this morning there had been an unusual influx of tourists and she and Jenny had been run off their feet.

 

Ichabod's doing, she thought with a little grin. He'd put Witness on social media with his costume antics at the college. Some of the students had even tweeted about his risque poetry society lecture. Their town might just get fresh life breathed into it at last. Who'd have thought?

 

A buzz at the back door made her wipe her hands on her apron. She pulled the door open to see the object of her thoughts standing behind it, hands clasped behind his back. When she smiled in greeting, he proferred a vibrant bunch of soft, dewy pink tulips.

 

"Oh." She _adored_  receiving flowers. Fresh blooms were a pure delight. "Thanks for coming to pick up the cake." She took the flowers. "You shouldn't have."

 

"It was a pleasure. Besides, I couldn't in good conscience take a cake from you and offer you nothing in return."

 

She smiled slowly. "I will be getting something from you, though."

 

His brow raised. "And what may I ask, is that?"

 

"Come in and I'll show you."

 

She held her breath as he stepped inside and she locked the door behind him. A clock in the back room ticked as she led him to the kitchen.

 

"Abbie. It is magnificent."

 

She basked in his praise. "It's all right."

 

"You do yourself a disservice. Bram will be bowled over by your generosity in the time you took to bake this treat."

 

"He didn't come along for the ride?" Abbie asked, thinking that if the other man had, her plan - albeit a last minute one - would be rather dead in the proverbial water.

 

"No, sadly not. Jet lag. He's sleeping."

 

"So we have time."

 

Ichabod eyed her thoughtfully. "Plenty. What did you have in mind?"

 

Abbie gently laid the tulips on the clean wooden counter and picked up the half-empty piping bag. She hesitated. Strange that she had laid herself bare for this man, this man who had waltzed into her life and switched on the colour where before it had been monochrome, and yet she was still sometimes tongue-tied with things such as this.

 

"I want you to pipe this..... on to me. And then lick it off."

 

He said nothing for a long moment, but his arctic blue eyes when very dark and very, very hot. In another second she would have stuttered, called it off, but then he yanked her into a fierce, hard embrace, and, tipping her slightly backwards, kissed her until her head spun. Kissed her like a man possessed. Like a man denied water then presented with a clear, cool fountain.

 

"Oh my darling." There is definitely time for that."

 

And in the cool quiet of the bakery back room, he proceeded to undress her very slowly, ice all her sensitive places, and take very great, very slow, pleasure in doing exactly as she asked.

 

Later, when she slumped against him, bare bottom on the counter and legs around his naked waist, eyes heavy with drugging pleasure, she wondered what she would ever do if he decided to move on from Witness. If his Oxford education called him away elsewhere in the world. If he got bored with a smalltown girl. What then? What if she hadn't guarded her heart closely enough or well enough?

 

But then he pressed soft kisses to her forehead, her temples and her closed eyes, murmuring sweet nothings, and she let the thoughts go. For now, she just wanted to be in his arms, and to take everything he offered, for as long as he offered it.


	23. More Serious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Costume plotting, and Abbie wakes up in Ichabod's house for the first time.

Ichabod stopped by the library basement on his way back home. He had agreed to meet Abbie back at his home for their dinner with Bram.

He heaved the trunk into the back of his car.

When he turned the key in the lock of his door, cheerful voices greeted him, and then the delightful sound of Abbie’s infectious laughter.

“... And then he says,  _ Madam, if you would be so good as to unhand me. _ ”

Abbie was bent double on the couch, her hands on her stomach as she laughed. She looked up when Ichabod entered the living room.

“Where have you been hiding this guy?” she asked, meaning Bram.

Ichabod eyed his friend. Bram simply raised his mug in greeting.

“Not far away enough,” Ichabod muttered darkly, but his mouth tipped into a smile. He couldn’t help it. His two favourite people in the world were here.

Bram stood. “Did you get it?”

“I did.”

He led his friend out to the car and the two easily hefted the trunk through the hallway and into the living area.

“I’ll make you some tea,” Abbie offered, padding out to the kitchen, carrying her own now empty mug.

Bram met Ichabod’s eyes over the trunk. “She’s a delight,” he said simply. “You don’t know what you’ve got.”

“Believe me, I do.”

They opened the trunk. When Abbie returned, Bram was cooing and exclaiming over the outfits in the trunk, some of which they had spread out over the floor of the room. 

“Whoa,” Abbie breathed.

Ichabod looked up and accepted the tea she held out to him. “Thank you, treasure.”

She inclined her head down to the trunk. “ _ That’s  _ treasure.”

“These reproductions are fine quality,” Bram commented as he held up a pair of knee-length boots, cuffs turned down at the tops. 

“But?” Ichabod prompted.

Bram smiled slightly. “Things can always be improved upon. You want to knock this town off its feet, right?”

“Right,” Abbie said, at the same time as Ichabod said, “Correct.”

“You two,” Bram replied indulgently. “All right. Let me get my bags. I’ve got a lot of ideas, but I’ll need some help, from both of you. And I think it might be a long night for all of us.”

“Good thing I brought chocolate cake,” Abbie said after a sip of her tea.

Bram brightened. “You did? Are you sure you’re that into Ichabod? I mean, I’m plenty eccentric too. And British. And did  I mention that I’m a dab hand at tailoring?”

“Bram,” Ichabod said in faux warning.

Abbie laughed. “I’m afraid I’ve pretty much hung my hat there.”

“So cool your jets, Romeo,” Ichabod muttered darkly.

Bram choked out a laugh. “I cannot believe _you_ just said something so completely… American.”

“I have watched television, you know,” Ichabod chuckled. “I’ll be right back. I think there are some people I need to invite over for lunch tomorrow. We have much to plan.”

 

****

Abbie stretched languidly, and slowly opened her eyes. She became aware of gentle snoring beside her. Of not being alone.

She turned her head. Ichabod slept beside her, his naked back facing her, his side rising and falling with each slow, measured breath. For a few moments Abbie pressed her cheek to his shoulder, listening to his heart beating.

If someone had told her that an English professor with a eccentric bent would sweep into the town and shake up her life so thoroughly, and that she would welcome it….. She’d have laughed out loud and called them a loon.

Yet here she was.

She felt him stir and slid an arm around, resting her fingers on his chest, where his heart beat its slow tattoo.

He turned on to his back and lifted an arm. She snuggled under it, and pillowing her head on his chest was the most natural thing in the known world. For a long moment they just settled into each other, simply two people in love who had not voiced it out loud yet.

“Morning,” Ichabod rumbled.

“It certainly is.”

She rubbed a hand over her eyes, blinking at the light filtering in through the blinds. “How late were you up last night?”

Ichabod frowned, thinking. She adored that little crease he got between his eyebrows. “I believe Bram turned in around two, myself shortly after.”

“I didn’t even hear you.”

He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I did not wish to disturb you.”

It was the first time she had stayed over. Neither of them had to say it wouldn’t be the last. Things were getting more serious. Much more serious. They both knew it, Abbie thought. But with every day that passed, the tree of hope in her heart that he would stay forever put down more and more roots.

“Ichabod, I-”

She hesitated, drumming her fingers on his chest.

“Yes?” His breath stirred the hair at her crown.

Abbie took the chicken’s way out and slid out from under his arm, climbing on top of him. He was, she noted with considerable pleasure, already at half mast.

“How about a little pre-breakfast workout?”

He smoothed his hands up her thighs. “They say exercise is good for the soul, do they not?”

She leaned down to capture his mouth, biting his lower lip gently. They both moaned.

A rap at the door interrupted them.

“Breakfast?” Bram called through the door. “I’ve made bacon sandwiches!”

Silence reigned for a beat.

“I’ll kill him,” Ichabod offered. “Just say the word. We’ll never need to see him again.”

“Are you awake?” Bram called.

“I’ll kill him _ slowly, _ ” Ichabod amended.

Abbie half-laughed and rolled off him on to the bed. “Let him live. I really like bacon.” She sat up and started to get dressed.

“I can think of things I should like more."

“Are you coming?” Bram asked through the door.

"Not anymore,” Ichabod groaned darkly as he reached for his shirt. 

Abbie headed for the door, laughing. “We’ll be right down.”


	24. Revival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The motley crew assembles, and a bit of library hanky-panky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone still hanging on in here... thank you!!!

A few months ago, when the spectre of Katrina’s death had hung over him like a shroud, when Oxford had seemed as inescapable as a strait jacket, one rainy day after another wearing him down, Ichabod would have laughed at the scene he sat in today.

 

A goddess of a woman beside him, who had seen inside his dark corners and swept light into them. His best friend, making coffee at the scarred kitchen counter of his new home.

 

And other friends besides. Joe, who owned the pizza place in town. Jenny, Abbie’s sister, and his new colleagues, Zoe and Frank.

 

They sat around his kitchen table like an odd band of warriors, ready to march with him to save this town, the town that had meant to be a stopping point on his road to recovery, and that had somehow become… pretty well everything.

 

Thanks to the woman who sat next to him.

 

Abbie squeezed his hand as if she could read his thoughts. “Go on,” she prompted. “It’s not your first rodeo.”

 

He smiled at her turn of phrase. “I fear that in many ways, it is,” he began, shuffling papers that he’d been writing on for what felt like weeks.

 

Bram handed out coffee and pizza silces that Joe had brought over from Smokey Joe’s. The spicy, mouthwatering scent of pepperoni and melted cheese filled Ichabod’s kitchen, and although it was very different the smells he was used to, earl grey tea and toast, the aromas made him feel….

 

At home.

 

“Two scant weeks until the festival would have been running here in Witness,” he began slowly, unsure of his audience. Strange, he was usually so confident when speaking about his love for history, but this was something else. Something for  _ now,  _ and he hadn’t been good at the  _ now _ for a while.

 

Until Abbie.

 

“So what’s the plan, dude,” Jenny piped up, and Ichabod was glad of her interjection.

 

“Revive it, totally,” he started. “Plan events. The festival, according to the past flyers and logs I could find, used to last a week. Let’s aim for two days. Two days of events, and on the second evening, a ball. We could sell tickets. I am aware we only have fourteen days, but wars have been fought and lost in less. You have all come here out of love for this town, and out of the goodness of your hearts. You all have contacts you could reach out to, promote the tickets. With some hard work, we could hold the ball in the records room of the library. It has beautiful floor and cornice work, it simply needs to be showcased.”

 

“I’ll offer a free pizza to anyone giving up their time to sweep and clean,” Joe offered, raising his coffee mug.

 

“And free cupcakes to any kids who’ll post flyers through the letterboxes,” Abbie added.

 

“I’ll stump up for use of the college printer for the flyers,” Zoe pitched in.

 

Bram nudged the trunk by the table with his foot. “We were working late into the night on some costumes, with reproductions Ichabod found in the library basement. They’re really gorgeous, and we’ve got one for each of you. I can rig up some extra, for photo ops, if any of you have spare fabric lurking around.”

 

“I’ll go to Atlanta, hit the Goodwill stores,” Jenny offered. “Bound to scare up something useful.”

 

A bubble of excitement bounced around the table for a moment.

 

“What about Miss Kitty and her…. Ilk?” Bram asked. “From what you and Miss Mills told me last night, they seem rather..  Formidable.”

 

“Ah, yes,” Ichabod began.

 

“You leave her to me,” Zoe replied, confidently. “I’ve got a few ideas. I know she’s been hugely unfair to you, Abbie,” she added. “I’m not defending her. But she loves this town as much as anyone. She just needs to be reminded of that.”

"I'll use whatever sway I have in this town," Frank added. "Been here damn years. Gotta count for something."

Joe set down his mug and rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s get to it. We’ve got a lot to do, and only half as many people as we need.”

 

****

 

Three hours later, Abbie heaved yet another old box of books out of the records room and into a huge, wheeled metal box Joe had loaned them from his storage. The plan was to clear all the crap and debris from the records room and give it a good clean. Zoe had seemed confident that they could freshen up the walls and floor and cover the rest in bunting and candlelight. Abbie was less optimistic, but then, optimism had never been her strong suit, she thought, glum.

 

Tonight she had to go and tell Aunt Ruby about this. If it failed, it might destroy her, the person Abbie loved just about most in the world.

 

Her heart weighed so heavy in her chest as she stared down at the full metal box. It held so many memories of this town.

 

What if memories were all that was left? Was this a stupid pipe dream? Would it be so bad to move to Atlanta?

 

“Penny for them?”

 

She snapped her head back. Ichabod stood a few feet away, a tome in his arms. “Forgive me, Treasure. Your face looked, perhaps, sadder than I have ever seen it.”

 

“You must be a real hit with the ladies,” she said, trying for dry, but she couldn’t quite pull it off, and firmed her lip, trying to stop it from trembling.

 

Ichabod placed the book in the box and cupped her elbows gently. “It is a huge undertaking which may result in naught.”

 

She looked up at him, drinking in his cobalt blue eyes, autumn leaf hair, loving the endless enthusiasm he had, tempered with the grave delivery that grounded him. Loving his quirky dress sense.

 

Maybe just…. Loving him?

 

“It is a huge undertaking,” she repeated softly. “And I’m not sure I’m talking about the festival revival.”

 

“I’m not sure I am, either.”

 

She leaned in for a kiss, and he took the bait, capturing her mouth so tenderly that a tear slipped out and down her cheek. She wanted so much at once; everything his kiss promised, both for them and for her home, the place she loved so much, the town that anchored her. She opened for him, and as their tongues tangled, she pulled him back against one of the built in bookcases, fisting a hand in his hair. It felt like tattered silk between her fingers and she sighed into his mouth.

 

“Comrades?” he asked against her lips.

 

“Jenny and Joe went on a pizza run, Zoe’s printing, and Bram’s at your place, sewing. Frank's rounding up support with some business honchos.”

 

He started to drop kisses down her neck, and Abbie arched accommodatingly.

 

“We have the place to ourselves, then, do we not?”

 

His clever fingers traced the line of bra underneath her t-shirt, and Abbie was too breathless to do anything but nod.

 

“‘Twould seem a shame to waste the break.”

 

“A damn shame,” she managed to eek out, sounding as calm was someone can when they’re about to be ravished against a bookcase.

 

He pushed down her t-shirt and started to lave a warm, wet path across the globes of her breasts. Abbie clutched at his hair. If she’d known records rooms where this hot, she’d have paid more attention on study days.

 

He took his time, thumbing her nipples as he kissed her skin. Abbie felt the pleasure begin like the beat of a drum, pounding in time with her heart, starting in her breasts and spearing downwards to that place between her legs that burned for him. 

 

She hadn’t felt this alive - this  _ loved _ \- in so long.

 

She gasped out loud when Ichabod pulled her t-shirt up over her head and unsnapped her bra, taking one hard nipple into his mouth. Every flick of his tongue sent a direct message arrowing down her body, and she pressed into him, her hands getting busy at the snap of his jeans. He was a man of such contrasts. Denim and tweed. Measured speech and fast hands. Soft eyes and hot kisses.

 

“Faster,” she bit off against his mouth as he kissed her again, fiercer this time, fiery, intense. She freed him from his jeans and shoved them down his hips, as he gathered the fabric of her summer skirt in his hand and pushed it up, sliding the other hand between her legs and moving the silk of her panties aside.

 

“God’s bones,” he breathed into the kiss. “You’re wet.”

 

“Now,” she ordered, and he proved a good listener when he slid into her, fast and deep and as perfect as she could ever imagine. She lifted up one leg and he held her thigh, curling her around him. Seated as deep as possible, he lifted his head to meet his gaze, and held it for several hot, slow seconds.

 

_ Mine, _ Abbie thought, and the word rang out in her head as he started to move, long, measured strokes that brought her to orgasm far too quickly. She tumbled over the peak, gasping his name against his hair of fire of gold, breathing in his now familliar smell.

 

“Christ.” After a last, lingering kiss, Ichabod braced his hand against the bookshelf and hooked a loose book by accident. As he adjusted his balance, the book teetered, and Abbie caught it. An old, dusty tome, the pages fell open into her hands, and something flat dislodged, fluttering on to the floor, landing face up.

 

Abbie couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

 

“I think the last part of our plan is here,” she murmured to Ichabod, bending to pick it up.

  
  



End file.
